Culpable
by Wallflowergirl
Summary: Pre-Season. Dean was hurt because Sam had been careless, and now Sam had to get on with what needed to be done. Now was not the time to give in to his own minor aches and pains.
1. Chapter 1

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Sam Winchester was uncomfortable.

He had been sitting – squatting – behind the fallen tree forever.

Well, maybe it was only an hour.

But the little niche which had looked so promising had not been designed for a sixteen-year-old who had recently shot up five inches. Sam had to glance down to check whether his legs were still attached; crouching in the same position for so long had sent them to sleep.

It didn't help that his jeans were thoroughly wet. It wasn't cold, but the unexpected rain storm which had passed over earlier that day had left puddles everywhere, and one had coyly concealed itself in the very place in which Sam had chosen to hide.

Of course he hadn't noticed it until he was ankle-deep in sludge.

He glanced across the clearing. Dean was nowhere in sight. Sam knew where he was, but only because he had watched his brother slip into the hiding place. Dean was a master of camouflage. Sam guessed that he himself was more visible, but then he had the more versatile weapon; armed with the shotgun, it was his job to incapacitate the harpy so that Dean could get close enough to stab her with the silver knife.

For a moment Sam wanted to call across to Dean, to shatter the hush with some inane comment. Sam contemplated the idea, and then imagined Dean's reaction, and decided to remain silent. Harpies had very acute hearing. Dean would be furious if Sam warned off their prey because he felt lonely.

_No... not lonely, exactly. That 'ud be a bit stupid, with Dean right across the clearing._

Sam chewed his lip reflectively. Now was not the time to deal with disagreements. They were here to ambush and kill the harpy, and his attention should be focused on that. But he didn't like going into a hunt with unresolved issues between him and Dean. He was only too aware of how quickly things could go pear-shaped, and he knew that if something happened to Dean when they were still angry with each other he would never be able to forgive himself.

He grimaced at the thought of Dean's reaction were Sam to share that thought with him. Dean – the crusader against all things emo and chick-flick. Dean didn't understand Sam's need to talk through everything. Dean got angry; he stomped around and swore and locked Sam out of their bedroom, and then after a time he cooled down and things were fine again.

That just wasn't enough for Sam.

As usual, this hadn't started as Dean's fight. As usual, he'd been the unwilling spectator, trying unsuccessfully to keep the peace as Sam and their father exploded into yet another of their all too frequent shouting matches. It had only been afterwards, as Dean and Sam drove away from the motel to pursue this hunt, that Dean had spoken. And Sam had been a little shocked and more than a little angry to discover that Dean agreed with their father.

"Dad's right." Dean's eyes had been fixed on the road as he spoke, his shoulders taut. He must have felt Sam's startled and indignant gaze, but he didn't look across at his brother. "You need to get more focused. It's dangerous -"

"You're backing Dad up?! Dean, I -"

Sam saw Dean's mouth tighten.

"Look Sam, I know you're a good hunter, and I know you can do the job. It's just that school and this stuff don't mix, man. You can't be doing calculus in your head while a werewolf is coming at you."

"I don't... I don't do _calculus in my head_... ugh!" Sam gritted his teeth in frustration. "It's just so unfair, Dean! That last time, with the chupacabra? I had a math midterm the next day! Dad knew because I told him three times and he still made me come, and then all I did was hold the weapons duffel! He doesn't care, Dean, he just doesn't care about the things that are important to me -"

"Yeah, well, Sam, do you care about the things that are important to him?" For the first time Dean glanced across, and Sam saw the bleakness of his gaze. His breath caught, anger and hurt and confusion warring tumultuously within him, and for a moment he was silent.

"The things that are important to Dad are the only things that are important to this family," he said at last. "Only the hunt matters. Nothing else, _ever_."

"Sam -"

"I think one of us could be dying and he wouldn't even notice unless it meant we couldn't pull a trigger or recite a ritual. Oh, wait. Let me rephrase. _I_ could be dying. He would notice if it was you. You're useful. You're a good hunter. I'm not, I -"

"_Sam!_" Dean's voice cut through the rising tide of bitterness. He had turned his gaze back to the road, but Sam could see by the way his jaw clenched and unclenched that he was angry. "Just... don't, okay?"

"Fine." The monosyllable was curt, bitten-off, expressing Sam's resentment more eloquently than any speech. He hunched his shoulder, turning away from Dean to stare sullenly out at the passing landscape.

"_Unfocused... distractible..." _His father's words came back to him now, as he crouched in the uncomfortable undergrowth. _"If you don't get your head in the game, Sam, you're a liability. You could put someone's life in danger..."_

Sam shifted, and scowled as the movement sent muddy wavelets into his sneakers.

_Someone._

_Huh._

_You mean your life, Dad. Or Dean's._

_Obviously. Who'd care about the liability?_

Sometimes his father made him so mad, he wanted to... to...

_Why doesn't he get it?_

_It's not that I don't want to hunt _ever_. It's just... why can't I do a few normal things?_

_He never lets me do anything I want to..._

_Why can't he be proud of me the way I am, what I do?_

Sam felt a suspicious thickening in his throat.

_I am not going to cry._

_Emo girl._

_At least Dad isn't here to see me losing it – then he'd really think I was weak._

That was the one bright spot in this otherwise sucking-out-loud day: their father was occupied with a particularly tenacious poltergeist in the neighbouring town. Sam didn't think he would have been able to handle his father's critical eye on this hunt, not with John Winchester's censorious words from earlier already looping in his head.

"_Get your head in the game, Sam."_

"_You could put someone's life in danger."_

And the knock-out: _"I'm not having you whining and complaining when you get yourself hurt because of your carelessness. It'll be no more than you deserve."_

_I don't whine and complain!_

The anger bubbled up again, but it couldn't drown out the hurt.

_I'm not careless. I don't get distracted. That time with the chupacabra, I could have gone to _sleep_ and it would have made no difference to the hunt._

_And when has it been my fault that anyone got hurt, ever? _

_It was _Dean_ that time with the shtriga – _

Here Sam's thoughts pulled up short.

Even in his frustration he didn't blame Dean for that. Dean blamed himself enough for both of them.

But the fact remained that despite that incident, their father would never haul Dean over the coals the way he had Sam.

_I wish Dad would trust me. I wish he trusted me on hunts. _

_I wish he trusted me to know what I want to do with my life._

He hadn't wanted to come on this hunt. He had a history assignment due Monday and _Jude the Obscure_ to read for English. Thomas Hardy wasn't his favourite author by any means, but he beat sitting around in puddles waiting for bird-woman monsters. And the harpy wasn't doing so much damage that she couldn't have waited until Dad returned from the poltergeist.

_Odds are that she won't even pitch up. Then all we'll have to show for this is more dirty clothes. And probably colds all round, just so the day can be really special. Not that that would bother Dad – he'd rather I was getting wet and wasting time, on a hunt, than actually accomplishing something that I want to do._

_I'm going to have to work all tomorrow to get through my homework._

_And this is such a stupid hunt. Dean could even do it by himself. _

He looked irritably down at his sodden sneakers.

_Maybe it's a good thing I can't feel my feet. Wet clingy socks are the absolute – _

"_Sam!_"

Dean's yell jerked him violently from his grumpy abstraction. He had a split second impression of feathers and vicious claws hideously merged with a female head and torso as the harpy bore down on him. Then he was fumbling with the shotgun which dangled limply in one hand, seeing he wasn't going to have time to bring it up, scrambling to get away before those claws got to him. His numb legs buckled under him as he moved, and he fell, sprawling heavily across the tree trunk.

Winded, he lay unmoving, knowing that the harpy was almost upon him but unable to escape. His shoulders curled in an instinctive but utterly useless attempt to protect himself. Those claws would shred his flesh... rip muscle from bone...

He heard Dean shout something, and managed to lift his head in time to see the older Winchester lunge forward, silver knife in hand. Sam had no idea whether he reached her. For a moment there was a blur of movement as the harpy whirled to face this new threat. Sam struggled to rise, hating the odds of unimpeded claws against knife, and managed to get a firm grip on the shotgun, but he wasn't quick enough.

"Dean!"

Sam's yell almost drowned out Dean's pained grunt as the harpy flung him back. But he heard the dull thud as Dean hit a tree on the other side of the clearing, and he stood petrified for an instant as he saw his brother slide down the trunk into a crumpled heap on the ground.

_No... Dean!_

The cruel eyes flashed a glance in his direction before turning back towards Dean, and Sam could see her intent. Her fallen enemy... Dean was an easy target. He wasn't moving. Sam had a momentary nightmare image of what the monster would do to his brother, and he acted without thinking.

Somehow, without being aware that he'd moved, he was between the harpy and her prey, shotgun raised.

"Stay away from my brother, bitch!"

His finger jerked on the trigger, and she staggered back, screaming in rage and pain as the bullet found its mark.

The shotgun wasn't going to kill her. The bullets were more a distraction than anything else. Even as she stumbled Sam was looking frantically around for the knife that Dean had carried. She sprang at him again and he pulled off another shot, not aiming at all but knowing from the shriek that the bullet had found its mark. Then a gleam of silver caught his gaze and he threw himself sideways and snatched up the knife.

The movement left Dean momentarily unprotected, and the harpy pounced.

Yelling something incoherent, Sam hurled himself off the ground, knife upraised. He had no idea where the weapon hit her. All he knew was that Dean was in imminent danger of being torn apart and he had no time to be strategic. He felt the blade sink deep; the harpy screeched, rearing back, and he impaled her again, this time in the heart.

Her cry altered as the silver did its work. A violent shudder went through her and her voice rose in an unearthly scream. Then she slumped down, her limp body falling on top of Dean's and covering him from Sam's view.

Sam knew he had to burn the body. He had to remove the knife and clean it. But at that moment the correct protocol was the last thing on his mind. He dragged the bloodied body away and let it fall unceremoniously to the ground, before dropping to his knees beside Dean.

He had thought that his uncomfortable crouched position earlier had only deadened his legs. Now he found that the horrible numbness encompassed his whole body. He felt frozen, terrified; his hands were shaking. Dean was so white, so utterly still.

_Nonononononono...._

Sam could still hear the appalling thud of Dean's body colliding with the tree. He couldn't have come away from that unscathed. There must be broken bones... concussion... skull fracture... Dean could be... could be...

_Pleasebeokaypleasebeokay..._

"Dean... Dean, please wake up..." He hated the way his voice quivered. His fingers quivered even more as he fumbled with his brother's wrist, seeking a pulse. This was his nightmare, exactly what he'd feared. He'd been scared that something would happen to Dean before they could deal with their argument, and now it had.

_This is my fault._

The thought hit him with sledge-hammer force, and he reeled mentally.

_This is my fault. I was distracted, and Dean got hurt._

_I was so busy thinking about Dad that I missed the harpy. _

_I should have seen her coming, and shot her, but I didn't notice her. _

_Dean jumped her to save me._

_It's my fault. It's my fault. It's all my fault._

"I'm sorry, Dean... I'm sorry... I'm sorry..." His fingers tightened around the limp wrist.

A steady heartbeat thudded under his fingertips, and his breath broke from him in what was almost a sob.

Dean was alive.

His pulse was a little fast, but strong and regular.

For a moment Sam crouched without moving, clutching his brother's wrist and staring down at Dean's unconscious face.

_He's alive. He's alive._

It was almost as if the relief unlocked the emotion that he hadn't allowed himself to indulge in. He found that he was crying, tears slipping unchecked down his face and falling wetly onto his sweater.

_Dean would be horrified. _

_Dean would never let himself fall apart like this._

_Dad would – _

At the thought of their father a shiver passed through him.

This was exactly what John Winchester had predicted.

This was what they'd argued about: Sam getting distracted, letting his thoughts wander, not concentrating on the hunt – and someone getting hurt.

_I was so angry that he'd think that would happen. I was so upset with him, that he'd think I could do that._

_And I just did._

_Dad is going to be so mad._

_He's never _ever_ going to forgive me._

_Dad will never trust me after this._

_It confirms everything he's ever thought about me._

_And he's right. I'm a liability on the hunt. If I hadn't been here, Dean wouldn't have got hurt trying to save me._

Angrily he swiped at his wet face with his free hand. Now wasn't the time to cry and feel sorry for himself. He'd got Dean into this situation, had been stupid and careless and got his brother hurt, and now it was up to him to sort things out. Dad was too far away to help. Sam was on his own.

He ran his gaze along the crumpled figure of his brother. Dean had fallen awkwardly on his side, with his arms and legs sprawled like a discarded rag doll. His head tilted down, one cheek pressed against the leafy carpet of the forest floor. Blood trickled from the side of his head, where a swelling bruise was already visible. At the sight Sam's insides lurched sickeningly.

_He must have hit his head on the tree. _

Again Sam heard the echo of Dean landing against the tree. His fingers shifted unconsciously on Dean's wrist, feeling the reassuring thud of his pulse. Surely it wouldn't be that strong – that regular – if there was something seriously wrong. If he was... if he was... not going to make it. He reached out and gently touched the bruised area.

Dean's chest rose and fell. Deep, steady breaths stirred the dead leaves near his slackly open mouth. If it hadn't been for the blood, the bruise, the peculiar unnatural way he was lying, he would have appeared to be merely sleeping. Sam put his arm down and very carefully ran his hands over his brother's limbs.

There didn't seem to be any broken bones. Nothing was grotesquely out of place. There were no blood-sodden patches on his clothing. Sam knew there could be internal injuries, broken ribs, damaged organs, but the steadiness of Dean's pulse and breathing suggested that he wasn't about to die of a punctured lung, or internal bleeding.

He was just unconscious.

It wasn't cold, but Sam pulled off his jacket and tucked it round his brother anyway. Shock was an unpredictable thing.

_I got you hurt... I'm not going to mess things up further._

He glanced across at the body of the harpy, for the first time remembering its existence. He didn't want to leave Dean, but at some stage he had to burn it. He looked down at Dean again and decided that he might as well do it now. He was going to have to move his brother eventually, but maybe if he waited a little, Dean would wake up. Even if he wasn't ready to run the Boston marathon, he might be able to walk to the car with Sam's help.

Sam didn't want to think about what he'd do if Dean remained unconscious. Dean was over six foot, and bulky to match. All the extra inches that Sam had put on over the last year had been upwards – he was just not big enough to carry his brother.

Sam swallowed.

_I'm sorry, bro..._

Dean always carried the lighter for burning corpses. Sam slid his hand into the pocket of Dean's jacket and retrieved it, before scrambling to his feet.

The flare of pain across his midriff was completely unexpected, and sharp enough to jerk a cry from him. He bent forward, wrapping one arm protectively around his abdomen and breathing deeply.

_What... how... I didn't hurt myself, did I?_

He straightened cautiously, relieved when the pain subsided to a dull ache, and lifted his sweater.

A broad reddened area discoloured his torso, from just below his sternum. Already the skin was purpling in places as bruises spread.

_What the hell! _

_Oh... yeah._

In the adrenalin- and fear-fuelled rush of activity, he had forgotten the inelegant dive he had taken across the fallen tree trunk. Now he came to think of it, he had landed pretty hard. He could remember being winded.

_That was why I couldn't move. That was why Dean had to – _

He jerked a little at the thought, and winced as the movement pulled on bruised muscles.

_Bruises I can handle, but I really hope I haven't cracked a rib. That would be just fan-friggin-tastic. _

The pain wasn't that bad, though. It hurt, but not with the stabbing agony that suggested broken ribs. It looked as if he was going to get away with it, although he'd be pretty sore for a few days.

His teeth came together.

_I guess that's less than I deserve, anyway. I screwed up, and Dean got hurt. _

_It's only fair that I should suffer too._

He looked down at the sprawled figure of his brother and his mouth went tight.

_I should be the only one to suffer. Not Dean, who was trying to protect me._

Ignoring the twinges, he strode across to the dead harpy and set about burning the corpse.

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	2. Chapter 2

Thanks to those who reviewed the last chapter, or favourited or alerted! Especial thanks to the non-logged-in reviewers since I can't reply to your reviews, obviously.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own them. Sometimes I think it's the other way round, actually.

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_Dead rat..._

_Rotting garbage..._

_Unflushed toilet..._

_Open drain..._

"What the hell is that smell?"

Somewhere between brain and mouth the question fell apart. Dean was pretty sure the garbled moan that he produced wasn't what he'd intended.

He tried again, but the brain-to-mouth short-circuit was still in operation.

_I... what... _

_I'm asleep._

_That's it. I'm asleep, and I'm dreaming – _

_But that smell!_

"Dean?"

Small voice.

"S'mmy..."

_Okay, that was a real word. Sorta. _

_Ah, I know. I'm drunk._

"Dean, can you hear me? Please wake up."

_Sammy sounds..._

_Scared._

_**Scared?!**__ What the... _

_The harpy!_

With a rush, it all came back to him. The hunt... hiding in the trees... Sam had the shotgun. Sam was supposed to shoot...

_The harpy attacked Sam!_

_Sammy... no... please be okay..._

"Sammy!"

A burst of fear thrust him up. He needed to get to Sam! Sam was hurt –

"Uhhh..."

Somebody had chopped his head off.

There was no way it could hurt that badly and still be attached to his body.

Dean slumped back to the ground with a whimper that would have embarrassed him exceedingly had he been in any position to care.

"Dean..."

Cold hands were pressed against his face.

_Need to..._

_Have to check..._

_Sammy..._

"S-sammy..."

He could just vaguely make out that his eyes seemed to be glued shut.

_Guess that fugly female got the drop on me, too..._

_Need to check on Sam!_

His thoughts were hopping around, frantic and disjointed. Only one came through with any clarity.

_Sam._

_Is Sammy okay? _

_Need to check Sam._

_C'mon... c'mon eyes. Open already!_

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"S'mmy...!"

Heavy eyelids flickered, revealing slits of green. Dean seemed to pale even more as his eyes opened.

"Uhhh... Sam..." His voice was a groan.

Sam winced in sympathy. He'd hurt his head before and could distinctly remember the nauseating pain.

Dean tried to lift his head, and groaned again.

"No, don't move... just lie still. S'okay, Dean, just relax." Sam tried his best to control the shake in his voice, but he wasn't doing a very good job. Dean looked terrible, even though he was at last waking up, and all of Sam's fears were back in full force.

"S-sammy..."

"I'm here, it's alright."

"Y' okay...?"

Sam blinked, and bit his lip hard.

_Dean got hurt, and he's worrying about me..._

"I... I'm okay."

"Harpy...?"

"Uh... she's dead. Burning. That's what the smell is."

"Y' get... hurt?"

"N-no."

_Bruises don't count._

Dean seemed to relax a little, although the tight lines of pain around his mouth and eyes didn't disappear. His eyes closed and he lay still for a while.

"Dean?"

"Mmm." His voice was marginally stronger.

"Are you... how're you feeling?"

"M' okay." Dean opened his eyes again, as if to prove how okay he was, and promptly threw up.

Sympathy triggered Sam's gag reflex. He wanted to comfort his brother, rub his back as Dean would have done had their positions been reversed. But somehow he couldn't. Somehow that was the action of a big brother, and he didn't think Dean would want it from him. He contented himself with putting a cautious hand on Dean's shoulder. His grip tightened when Dean appeared to be readying himself to dive into his resurrected lunch, and he pulled his brother back.

Dean groaned again, and mumbled something. One hand came up, and he rested his arm across his eyes.

"Dean?"

"Saaammm..." Dean swallowed, scrunched up his face, and tried again.

"S-sam...? D'I hit m'head?"

"Yeah."

"Harpy?"

"Yeah, she... she threw you into a tree." Sam's voice trembled slightly as he relived that moment. Dean's arm lifted and he blinked at Sam with momentary concern.

"W-what... w-where... is she?"

Sam bit his lip.

_He's really hurt – I just told him that she's dead!_

"She's dead. I burned the corpse."

"D'd I... get her?"

"Uh... no. No, I stabbed her with your knife."

A weak but unmistakeably pleased smile curled Dean's mouth.

"Y' killed her? Tha's... my boy..."

Sam was too worried to appreciate the praise. It was getting later, and colder, and Dean needed help. He needed warmth and medical attention. Sam wasn't sure whether he should move him or call 911.

A glance at the cell phone that he'd slid from Dean's pocket decided him. Deep in the forest as they were, there was no reception, and he wasn't leaving his brother to find a place where he could make a call. They were going to have to walk out, and he'd just have to trust that the movement wouldn't worsen any injuries Dean might have sustained.

The trip to the Impala was not easy for either of them. Dean became more aware of what was happening, but his body was sluggish and uncooperative and he leaned heavily on Sam. The latter had one arm wrapped around his brother's waist while his other hand gripped the shotgun.

Supporting Dean's weight would have been difficult enough under normal circumstances. With the bruises Sam had collected in his fall over the tree trunk it bordered on impossible. He was soon drenched, the sweat due almost as much to the ache in his midriff as to the physical exertion. He could hear the pain in Dean's heavy breathing; it was an effort to keep it out of his own. By the time they reached the Impala he was staggering almost as much as his brother, and wanted nothing more than to sink to the ground and just lie there.

But this time he couldn't relax. This time he had to be the responsible one.

Sam grimaced at the thought. He _was_ the responsible one. He was responsible for Dean's condition. He looked at his white-faced brother, propped against the side of the car, and felt a stab of guilt that was far worse than the dragging pain in his torso.

_I deserve that pain. Dean is hurt because of me, because I was careless, and now I must grit my teeth and get on with what needs to be done, without whining and moaning. _

_My bruises are nothing compared to Dean's concussion._

It was like having his father inside his head.

_Get the keys. Get Dean into the car. Get us both back to the motel. Get Dean into the motel, out of those clothes, into bed, clean and bandage that cut – please don't let it need stitches – and give Dean painkillers. Wake Dean up every hour to check that he's okay._

He repeated the litany to himself over and over, angrily, commanding himself. Now was not the time to give in to his own aches and pains. Now was not the time to be weak, to be the things his father had accused him of.

_I screwed up once, exactly as Dad said I would. Not again. Not now. Not ever. _

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"Dad, it's me. Sam. Uh... Dean's hurt... he hit his head... I think he's gonna be okay but... but... yeah. I just thought you oughta know. Uh... later, Dad."

Sam disconnected the call and slowly put the cell phone down. His eyes were on the unmoving figure of his brother in the opposite bed. Dean was asleep, his face pale but the breath coming deeply and evenly. A neat dressing covered the gash on his temple.

Sam swallowed, running a slightly unsteady hand over his face.

He had driven them both back to the motel after wrestling Dean into the passenger side of the Impala. Dean's lack of protest at Sam's appropriation of the car keys had only heightened his concern; by the time they reached the motel, Dean was barely conscious and almost unresponsive. Getting him out of the car and into the room had been almost impossible. In the end Sam had hooked his arms under Dean's and dragged him backwards, his heels sliding along the ground. The strain on his bruised muscles had been intense, and after pulling his brother onto the bed Sam had slumped to the floor with his back against the mattress, head down, willing himself not to pass out.

Fortunately Dean hadn't needed stitches. Cleaning and dressing the cut had brought him round, and Sam had managed to get two Tylenol into him before Dean faded out again. This time, though, he seemed to be sleeping rather than unconscious. His pulse was strong and regular, and when Sam checked his pupils they were even and reactive.

In all likelihood he was going to be fine.

Sam called their father anyway, and as usual, the call went to voicemail. He had no idea when his father would get the message or when he'd be home.

For the first time Sam allowed himself to take stock of his own injuries.

Dragging his heavy brother around had done his midriff no good. The pain was a dull, constant ache, hunching him over like an elderly woman. When he lifted his sweater and hoodie he was not surprised to see the spectacular wash of colour that spanned his abdomen.

He knew he should take a shower. He should check the weapons, clean the knife, reload the shotgun. He should make sure that the wards and the salt lines were in place. He needed to check on Dean again.

He would do it. All of it. He couldn't afford to sleep now, even if his head felt heavy and his eyelids kept drooping...

Bedsprings creaked. The lumpy pillow curved under the sudden weight as the tousled dark head came down. Sneaker-clad feet still resting on the ground, Sam's aching body relaxed into the gentle darkness of exhausted sleep.

**************************************************

"Sam?"

"Mmmm." _No, don' wanna... le' me sleep..._

"Sam. Sam, wake up!"

The hand on his shoulder was heavy and none too gentle, tugging him towards consciousness. Reluctant green-blue eyes half-opened, slid shut, and then flew open again as awareness crashed in on him.

_Dean! What... how... I fell asleep? Stupid... stupid..._

"Dad?!"

For a moment he was disoriented. The overhead light was on, casting brittle yellow light over the shabbiness of the room. The curtains were drawn incompletely across the single window, and the sliver of black that remained told him it was night.

John Winchester stood between the two beds. He looked dishevelled, his chin stubbled and his eyes bloodshot. He was frowning.

"Sam, what happened?"

Sam pushed himself into a sitting position, swallowing back an involuntary groan at the pull on his sore abdomen. His eyes flew instinctively to Dean.

_I was supposed to wake him! I shouldn't have gone to sleep – needed to check on him..._

"Sam!" His father's voice was impatient, and Sam could hear the beginnings of anger.

"We... uh... the harpy. She knocked Dean... she threw him into a tree. He hit his head." Sam swallowed, lubricating the dry huskiness of his voice. He saw the instant worry in his father's eyes.

"Has he woken up yet?" The oldest Winchester leant over his sleeping son, one hand going to his neck to feel his pulse. Careful fingers touched the dressing that Sam had applied earlier. Sam, watching apprehensively, was relieved when a little of the tension seemed to leave his father's shoulders.

"Yeah, a couple of times – he woke up after... after I killed the harpy, and spoke to me, and then when we were going back to the car. And also when I cleaned the cut."

His father nodded. His hand strayed and rested for just an instant on his older son's hair in a rare tender moment. Dean stirred a little, mumbling something, and then settled again.

Sam relaxed. If his father was being affectionate, he couldn't be too upset. Maybe there wouldn't be another massive argument. Maybe they'd just be able to move on – and then he saw his father's eyes, and the relief faded.

"So, how did this happen? You had a plan. She shouldn't have had a chance to get the drop on you like this."

Sam didn't want to describe what had happened. He knew it was his own fault, and goodness knew he blamed himself even more than his father could, but he quailed at the thought of admitting the extent of his crime.

"We... uh... she came for me, and Dean tried to stab her with the knife, and she turned on him." Sam had never been as good as Dean at concealing the truth. He knew his story sounded weak, and he wasn't surprised when his father's eyes narrowed.

"Dean tried to stab her with the knife? What happened to the shotgun?" His gaze went to his older son. "He should have known better than to attack her like that! No wonder she threw him!"

Even as apprehensive as he was, Sam wasn't having Dean take the blame. Of course he'd known better. And if Sam had only been paying attention, his older brother wouldn't have had to jump in to rescue him. He took a deep breath, his shoulders hunching unconsciously against the wrath that he knew was not far off.

"I... uh... I had the shotgun. I didn't... I didn't see her coming, and when I did I tripped so I couldn't shoot. Dean... Dean attacked her because otherwise she would have attacked me."

There was a brief silence as his father assimilated this.

"You didn't see her coming." His voice was ominously quiet. "Why not?"

Sam's gaze flicked to his, and then away. His silence was answer enough.

"You weren't paying attention. Is that it?"

Sam chewed his lip, not wanting to meet his father's eye.

"_Is that it?_"

He couldn't avoid it forever. He lifted his chin and looked up at his father.

_I'm not scared of Dad. I'm not. I just wish he wasn't so... tall... and that he'd sit down. I don't like him... looming... like that. _

"Well...uh... kinda..."

"Kinda."

"Uh... yeah. I... I got distracted –" Sam hated himself for the quiver he could hear in his voice. He'd fought with his dad before. This was nothing new.

_He's only going to yell. He's always yelling at me. It's nothing to be scared of. Nothing to be scared of!_

_But this time you deserve it._

The implacable little voice in his head was unanswerable. This was different, because this time he didn't have an excuse. This time he didn't have an answer. He didn't have anger to throw back at his father.

All his anger was against himself.

His head dropped again and he stared at the floor in tense anticipation of the explosion.

He didn't have to wait long.

"...exactly what we talked about..."

"...said this would happen..."

"...careless..."

"...irresponsible..."

"...selfish..."

"...thoughtlessly put others in danger..."

He was a sapling in the path of a flash flood of words.

Sam didn't even hear them all. At some point his arms wrapped unconsciously around his middle, and only in part because the bruises were hurting. The anger directed against him was an almost physical assault.

"... could have been seriously hurt..."

"...could have been killed..."

"Did you even think of taking your brother to hospital?"

Sam flinched at that, his eyes widening as they stared at the floor.

_I didn't... I should have taken Dean to the hospital! _

Nightmare scenarios played through his mind. Bleeding on the brain... skull fracture... coma...

"...you hear me?"

_He could have been seriously hurt and I wouldn't have known._

His guilt and self-directed anger reached new levels.

"_Sam! Did you hear me?_"

Sam started, and his head lifted involuntarily. His father's voice was low-pitched in deference to the injured young man sleeping in the bed beside them, but Sam could hear the fury that vibrated through it. His face was pale with wrath.

Sam couldn't remember the last time he'd seen his father so angry, and he shrank back a little.

"I'm not putting up with this any longer! If Dean had been killed today it would have been your fault! Would you have wanted to live with that? With the knowledge that you caused your brother's death? You're a liability, Sam! A danger to yourself and, more importantly, to Dean and me! It's time you learnt to pull your weight! It's time you stopped being a burden and started to take some responsibility!"

Sam's teeth sank into his lower lip.

_I. Will. Not. Cry._

_It's true. I am a liability and a danger. Someone could get killed because of me._

_Dad's right. He's right. I'm a burden._

With a supreme effort he held back the betraying tears and listened in silence.

"...extra training..."

"...Latin..."

"...rituals..."

"...sparring..."

"...weapons..."

He was aware that his father was laying out an impossibly tough program, but he couldn't find it within himself to challenge it. It was only what he deserved, after all. If the extra training could prevent today's nightmare from happening again, he would just have to find time for it.

"And when the semester is finished, that's it. Sixteen is old enough to leave school."

Sam's breath caught.

"But Dad –"

"_Don't_ argue with me, Sam! It's a distraction, and it's not worth it."

John Winchester's jaw was jutting, and his teeth were tightly clenched, and Sam knew that there would be no changing his mind.

Lying in the dark later that night, listening to the heavy, regular breathing of his brother beside him and his father across the room, Sam couldn't prevent the words from replaying in his head.

"_Careless... irresponsible... selfish... liability..."_

"_It's time you stopped being a burden..."_

"_It's time you stopped being a burden..."_

The pain of knowing his father's poor opinion of him was even worse than the gnawing ache in his abdomen. The awareness that it was warranted was his undoing.

Sam curled onto his side, pulling his knees up against his chest, turned his head into the pillow and gave in at last to the burning tears which washed silently down his face.

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Please review! It makes me happy ;-0


	3. Chapter 3

I wasn't going to post this chapter for another couple of days, but... well, I couldn't wait...

**Disclaimer**: Of course they're mine. Duh. I own the Tooth Fairy too. And Father Christmas.

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Sam had never really felt comfortable in the dark.

In their line of work, he couldn't afford to be afraid of it. Too many nights were spent in graveyards, abandoned houses, forests and other lightless places for him to indulge in fear. But those same graveyards, abandoned houses and forests had instilled in him an awareness that the monster in the shadows was more than likely to be real. Other children were assured that the bogeyman couldn't possibly be hiding in the closet; Sam was given a firearm and told to shoot the creature.

There were nasties out there, and they liked the dark as much as Sam did not.

His eyes darted around now as he gulped water from his bottle. Faint streaks overhead showed where the dawn was gathering itself together for the new day, but the light was too tentative to make any impact on the deep shadows which still blanketed the town. Very few people were awake, most still enjoying the last few moments of sleep before the day snatched their rest away. Sam thought longingly of the motel room and the bed he had left. It was lumpy, none too clean, and overfull of older brother, but right now it seemed like heaven.

He screwed the lid back onto his water bottle and sighed deeply.

_Stop being so self-pitying, Sam Winchester. You brought this on yourself._

This was the third morning in a row that he'd been woken before five. It was the third morning since the disastrous harpy hunt. Apart from the cut on his temple, Dean was almost fully recovered, eating greasy burgers and fries with no apparent ill-effects and casually flirting with the daughter of the motel owner. Even the monstrous headache that had kept him in bed for the first day had subsided.

_Dean is fine. _

Sam repeated the words to himself, for a moment relaxing in the relief of that knowledge. He knew only too well how dangerous head injuries could be, but Dean appeared to have escaped any complications.

It was the single positive thought in the wretchedness of his mind.

He'd had arguments with his father before. The last few years seemed actually to be one long succession of arguments, mostly about hunting versus schoolwork. Sam didn't like them, would rather have had a peaceful relationship with his father where they agreed on most things, but he'd grown used to their stormy interactions. They would yell at each other, his father would issue commands and Sam would slam doors, and then it would blow over and they'd come to an uneasy truce until the next time.

This was different. Sam had never known his father to stay angry for so long.

_It's not even anger, as such. Anger I could handle. But I don't know what to do with this. _

Every morning, when he was woken by his father's hand firmly shaking his shoulder, he glanced at the green eyes so like his own and hoped that his father would have backed down. Relaxed. But every morning he was greeted by the same unyielding expression.

The heat of his father's rage was far easier to deal with than his cold relentlessness.

True to his word, John Winchester had implemented a rigid training program more strenuous than any Sam had known before. Sam had to complete a five mile run and sparring practice before school. On his return at the end of the day, there was more running and fitness training, as well as weapons training. Before he went to bed, there were rituals to memorise and Latin to practise.

Somehow, in between all of this, he still had to complete his homework.

Dean had noticed the new regime. Sam had returned yesterday evening from his ten mile run and while finishing in the shower had overheard his father and brother talking about it. Dean's voice had been questioning. But he hadn't remonstrated. He hadn't argued with his father, or tried to defend Sam in any way.

Somehow that was the worst part.

It wasn't that Sam felt that he deserved to be defended. He knew it was his own fault, that he'd been supremely careless and deserved punishment. And it wasn't even as if the punishment was unreasonable. He could do with extra training.

But if Dean didn't defend him, it meant he agreed with their father. It meant he also felt Sam had been careless, and that he needed punishment.

It meant that he blamed Sam for his own injuries.

Sam swallowed at the thought.

He'd always looked up to his older brother. He'd always wanted to be as capable as Dean.

He wanted Dean's approval, even more than he wanted his father's.

Dean's blame hurt. Bitterly.

_Well, he should blame me. I am the one who got him hurt, after all. I was careless. I got distracted. If I'd been concentrating, the harpy wouldn't have surprised me and I would have shot her and Dean would have stabbed her and we'd all be fine. So I totally deserve all of this. _

The words looped in his head, over and over, pounding into his consciousness with the rhythm of his feet on the ground when he ran.

_Guil-ty guil-ty guil-ty..._

He pushed away from the tree he'd been leaning on. He still had a mile to go before he reached the motel, and there was an unfinished history essay waiting for him there. He'd tried to finish it last night after the Latin and the two new banishment rituals he'd had to memorise, but his father had turned the light out. Sam had retreated to the bathroom and worked some more in an uncomfortable crouch on the grimy tiles. He'd woken an hour later, huddled and stiff, his cheek mashed against the now crumpled essay.

Despite his good intentions, his body just wasn't able to keep up with everything he was requiring of it.

As he moved, the familiar pain wrenched through his abdomen.

He'd somehow expected that it would have subsided. It had been three days, after all. But it wasn't improving. If anything, the discomfort was worse, with his torso complaining bitterly every time he moved incautiously. It made the extra exercise far more demanding than it should have been. He was in good shape, and fit, and a five mile run would normally have presented no difficulties. This morning, though, he'd already been forced to stop three times.

He bent forward slightly, his arm across his middle, and waited until the pain had subsided to a dull ache. This was a bad one. He swallowed back the sudden nausea.

_Just one more mile. _

_You're so weak, Sam. Suck it up and get going. Dean would never let a few bruises slow him down._

_Just one more mile._

Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to start running again.

****************************************************

For the first time in as long as he could remember, Sam was glad at the end of the school day.

He hadn't managed to finish the history essay. His teacher had not been pleased, and Sam had lost ten percent of the grade for the assignment.

Normally that would have bothered him considerably. This time, though, he had just nodded and accepted the penalty. He was too tired to care, his mind too lethargic to make a fuss. The ache in his abdomen was constant now, draining the meagre store of energy that remained after too much activity and too little rest. He had almost fallen asleep in math class, and had called down the wrath of the math teacher on his head for not paying attention.

He knew what was waiting for him when he got home. His father's anger disguised as inflexible discipline. His brother's detachment. A ten mile run followed by target practice and more Latin, late into the night until his father decided he'd done enough.

For a moment he wondered what would happen if he refused. If he said he was feeling sick, and was exhausted, and couldn't manage the training.

_Yeah, __**that**__ would go down well._

_Dad would think I was trying to get out of it. That I was making excuses. He'd think I was just looking for sympathy._

_I must just try to get the run done more quickly tonight, and then the Latin. Oh, and the target practice._

_Then I need to read that chapter for Social Studies, and finish the character study for English, and do those analytical geometry problems. And I really should start studying for the biology quiz on Friday._

His shoulders slumped at the prospect of all that he still had to do.

_I'm so tired._

_I'm just so tired._

_I can't do it all..._

"_I'm not having you whining and complaining when you get yourself hurt because of your carelessness. It'll be no more than you deserve."_

John Winchester's words from three days ago hit him with almost physical force. This was what he'd been talking about, then. There would be no sympathy to be had from that quarter.

_You deserve it, Sam. It's your own stupid fault, so suck it up and get on with it. _

_Dean's the one who was really hurt. Stop making such a girly fuss over a few bruises. Tiredness never killed anyone._

His father was not in the room when he arrived back at the motel. Dean was sitting on the bed, back against the headboard, idly watching television. He looked up briefly as Sam came in.

"Hey dude. School okay?"

"Yeah." Sam dropped his book bag on the floor beside the bed and stripped off his outer shirt. "How're you feeling?"

"Sam, I'm fine." Sam had his back to his brother but he could _hear_ the eye roll.

_He's still mad at me. _

His lip quivered, and he clamped his teeth down on it.

_Dean thinks I'm a loser anyway. I'm not going to cry in front of him._

"I... uh... I'm going for a run." It took all his will-power to keep his voice steady.

Dean's voice stopped him at the door.

"Sam? You okay?"

_Don't cry. Don't cry._

"I'm fine." He kept his back to his brother.

_If I admit how tired I am he'll think I'm trying to get out of this. He'll know how weak I am. _

"You sure?"

For a moment Sam thought he could hear real concern in Dean's voice. For a moment he could almost imagine Dean's face, the casual teasing half-grin and the serious worried eyes. The urge to admit what he was feeling was overwhelming. Dean would say he was a girl, and call him "princess" and "Samantha", and force him into bed, after a nice hot shower, and maybe even bring him soup, and just generally hover –

_Get __**real**__, Sam!_

The daydream shattered.

_Dean blames me. He's not exactly going to go all mother hen on the irresponsible little brother who almost got him killed._

"Sam?"

"I'm okay, Dean. Really."

Sam suddenly didn't want to be there. He could feel his brother's eyes boring into his back, eyes which undoubtedly held disapproval, anger, censure.

_Not you too, Dean. I can't bear it from you too._

Without looking back he escaped, hurrying away across the pitted parking lot towards the road.

********************************************************

Sam straightened painfully, and wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. Sweat beaded on his forehead.

He hadn't eaten since breakfast, but somehow his stomach had managed to find contents to reject.

Three times.

_I feel... awful._

He shuddered, swallowing back the nausea that threatened to overwhelm him again, and took a tentative sip of water.

_Just enough to take away the taste. Please stay down this time._

He still had eight miles to go. The first two had taken almost an hour. Sam knew, without a doubt, that he would not be able to do the rest.

Even the thought of walking back to the motel was demoralising.

_But when I go back, Dad will ask if I did them all, and I'll have to tell him I didn't, and then he'll be angry, and maybe he'll make me go out and do them anyway, and I still have to do the Latin and the rituals, and my math and English and other homework, and Dad and Dean will think I'm weak, and they'll carry on blaming me and they'll never trust me._

_I just feel so sick..._

_I have to do them. _

_Come on, Sam. Don't be such a girl. _

_I have to do them._

_Dean wouldn't let stomach flu – or whatever – hold him back._

_I have to do them._

Foot followed leaden foot. Around him the darkness stole softly down, leaching away the warmth of the day, but he barely noticed. Everything he had was focused on the ground, the road ahead, the next step that took him that infinitesimal distance closer to the end of what was swiftly becoming torture.

_Havetodothemhavetodothemhavetodothem..._

He was staggering dizzily when he finally reached the motel again. His mind was a blur and his vision fading in and out. He wanted nothing more than to collapse. He wanted to curl up on his bed and just let go.

_Can't..._

_Have to do the Latin and rituals and homework..._

_Dad'll think I'm weak..._

_Mustn't let them see._

That thought was clear in the haze that was his mind.

_Dad'll think I'm making excuses. He'll think I'm trying to get out of the punishment. He can't know. He mustn't know._

_Suck it up, Sam. _

_Suck it up._

_It's nothing. You're okay. _

_Suck it up._

Dimly he knew that he couldn't go into the room the way he was right then. He was barely able to stand, let alone behave as if nothing was wrong. He leant against the corner of the building, looking vaguely along the row of doors to where the Impala was parked outside their room. Fluorescent light fell from the naked bulb above the motel room door, splashing onto the hood. The black shine was mesmerising.

He found himself staring stupidly.

_Impala..._

_Dean's car._

_I drove it._

_Dean let me drive it._

It grew bigger and bigger, looming in his vision, and then abruptly shrinking again until it was nothing but a pinpoint of gleaming black.

_Can't stand here..._

_Can't stay here forever._

_Forever._

_Go inside. _

_Latin rituals homework target practice._

_Walk down there... to the car... to the door._

_Foot up._

_Down._

_Other foot._

_Updownupdownupdown._

_So bright..._

_Impala...so bright... shiny..._

He was almost asleep, leaning drunkenly against the wall.

His head tilted. One cheek smacked against the unforgiving brick, and the unexpected sensation tugged at consciousness that was slipping. His body shuddered involuntarily, the resultant pain pushing back the fuzzy darkness.

One arm wrapped around his middle and he breathed heavily through his nose, still leaning against the wall but straightening a little.

_Come on. Come on._

_I can't go to sleep now._

_Have to do homework. Have to do Latin. _

_Maybe I'll get off the target practice 'cause it's already dark._

_Walk to the door and go inside. _

_Just have to make it to bedtime._

The thought of bed was a spur that drove him away from the wall and towards the door. He staggered a little, giddy. The paving undulated beneath his feet.

_Bed. Just have to make it to bedtime._

_Come on, Sam. Pull yourself together. Don't be so weak._

It was his father's voice in his head, his father's disapproval, and it gathered together the tattered shreds of resolution. His teeth clenched.

_Fight it, Sam._

_Fight the pain._

_Fight the fatigue._

_You can't rest now._

_Later, but not now._

He reached the door, swallowed back the ever-present nausea, and went in.

"You're late." His father was sitting at the table, his back to the door, papers spread around him. "It's too dark to practise shooting now. You'll have to fit it in after your run tomorrow morning."

"Y-yes, sir." Sam was vaguely pleased when his voice came out sounding normal.

_Can't let him see. Can't let him know._

"Shower and be out in five minutes. I want to hear those rituals you learned last night."

"Yes, sir."

Dean was sitting on the bed, as he had been when Sam had left. Sam saw him shift position.

"You okay, dude?"

Sam sat down on the edge of the bed, his back to his brother. Dean knew him too well. If he let him see his face, Dean would know.

"Sammy?"

The childish nickname was almost his undoing.

_No, I'm not... I feel so sick... help me, Dean..._

"Sam." His father had turned. Sam looked up and met his father's gaze.

"_I'm not having you whining and complaining when you get yourself hurt because of your carelessness. It'll be no more than you deserve."_

John Winchester's face was impassive, but his eyes were stern. Sam read no concern in the green depths.

_Dad will just blame me more if I admit I'm feeling sick. He'll think I'm weak._

_I'm careless and irresponsible and selfish, but I'm not going to be weak._

_He'll think I'm trying to get out of the extra training. He'll think I'm trying to manipulate him. To get sympathy so he'll back down._

_Dad'll be angry with me if he finds out I got hurt as well. _

"I'm okay. I'm fine."

***************************************************************

_Gonna be sick._

_Need to..._

_Gonna throw up._

The room was dark. Beside him Dean was breathing heavily, fast asleep.

_Can't throw up in the bed. Dean 'ud kill me._

_Need to get to the bathroom._

He slithered from under the bedclothes. The shadows shifted, rocking as he straightened too quickly.

_Sick... feel so sick..._

The bathroom was only a few feet away but he almost didn't make it. Shivering, unsteady on bare feet that prickled as they met the cold tiles, he pushed the door shut behind him and almost collapsed in front of the porcelain bowl.

Acid burned his throat.

_Mustn't make a noise._

_They mustn't hear._

He retched, over and over, losing the little dinner he'd managed to force down but unable to stop even when that was gone. He coughed, heaving a deep shuddering breath, and dropped his head forward again as his stomach convulsed.

He'd been sick before, of course. There'd been many nights like this, crouched over a toilet bowl in some rundown motel or seedy apartment.

But he'd never done it alone.

There had always been a hand on his shoulder, a firm grip, Dean's palm rubbing comforting circles on his back.

Tears stung his eyes, of weakness, loneliness and pain.

His stomach quietened, still uneasy but not actively heaving. He rested his head against the cold porcelain.

_So tired._

_Wanna sleep._

The bed he had left beckoned. Warm... comforting. Soft pillows cradling his aching head. His exhaustion tempted him to just stay where he was. The hardness of the grimy tiles drove him to make a herculean effort to move.

He dragged himself up, leaning heavily on the basin, and rinsed his mouth. He was so thirsty. He wanted to take great gulps of the liquid, feel it washing down his burning throat, refreshing him. He knew he was probably dehydrated. But he also knew it wouldn't stay down.

_Refreshing going down. Just nasty coming back up._

His face in the mirror was white, light and shadows in stark contrast creating planes and angles.

_I look sick._

_Good thing Dad can't... _

_Dad can't –_

His hands clenched suddenly on the rim of the basin.

It had been hurting before, but nothing like this. The pain was a steel rod drilling through his middle.

His back curled, hunching, a completely involuntary move against the sudden onslaught. Breath hitched, rasping between suddenly gritted teeth. Sweat was beading on his forehead.

It had never hurt like this.

_He_ had never hurt like this.

This was pain on a whole new level. This was agony beyond his experience, frightening, terrifying in its intensity.

Dizziness swayed him, sent him sliding down onto the tiles. His arms were wrapped around his midriff. Somehow he was lying on his side, back pressed against the bath, curled into a fetal position. Darkness dotted the edge of his vision, narrowing hazily.

The pain was living, an entity. It was there with him, around him, in him.

He was drowning in the pain.

A jagged moan broke from him, a strangled whimper of agony.

"_Dean..._"

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Please review! Feedback rocks...


	4. Chapter 4

Well, here's chapter 4. I'm not really happy with it to be honest... oh well... better a not so great something than a perfect nothing, I guess!

**Disclaimer**: SN isn't mine....

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_Gleaming auburn curls brushed his arm. She was beautiful, slender but with curves in all the right places, and Dean groaned in appreciation as a small pink tongue ran enticingly over a luscious lower lip. She leaned forward, let her hands rest against his chest, and murmured seductively in his ear._

"_Masticated food is moved down the oesophagus by means of peristalsis, and then passes through the cardiac sphincter at the junction of the oesophagus and the stomach."_

_Dean blinked. That was... unusual. He'd never had a girl take quite that approach. Her voice was deeper than he'd expected... older..._

"_Aaagh!" He leapt backwards, almost falling over, as the beautiful Candi morphed suddenly into Mrs. Hoskins, Dean's sophomore biology teacher – complete with straggly grey hair, fallen arches and crowsfeet. _

His eyes flew open and met the almost-darkness of the motel room.

_It was just a dream. Just a bad dream. Calm down, Dean._

He lay without moving, staring blurrily at the darkened ceiling with eyes were already sliding shut again. Teetering on the brink of sleep, his arm shifted automatically, reaching out across the bed to check that Sam was okay. It was as natural to him as breathing to watch out for his brother, even when he was almost asleep and still traumatised from a hideous nightmare.

His hand met cool sheets, rumpled blankets, but no Sammy.

Dean's head turned, followed by his whole body as he rolled onto his side to face Sam's side of the bed. His hand hadn't lied. Sam was not there.

He felt a swift panic which quietened when he saw the thin line glowing under the bathroom door.

"Chill out, dude," he mumbled to himself. He didn't roll back, but lay facing the bathroom, half-asleep but unconsciously waiting for Sam to emerge.

Even to himself he could not have said why he didn't just curl back up under the blankets and go back to sleep. He liked to keep tabs on his younger brother, but that didn't generally include hovering when Sam used the bathroom. That phase of their lives had passed when Sammy was a chubby toddler just coming out of diapers.

Perhaps it had something to do with Sam's face after school that afternoon. Or his slumped posture when he returned from his evening run.

Sam had assured him that he was fine. That there was nothing wrong, he was okay.

That didn't explain the sickly pallor of his face. Or the dark shadows like bruises under his eyes. It didn't explain why Dean's little-brother-radar was going off like an EMF meter in the Ridge Avenue Mansion.

Sam had looked worn out, unnaturally exhausted.

It was no doubt due in part to the rigorous training program their father had instigated. Dean had been startled at and not entirely happy with what he knew was a punishment for Sam's inattentiveness on the hunt. Sure, Sam had screwed up. He should have been focused, especially after the argument he'd had with their father only that morning. He shouldn't have been distracted. He should have been ready for the harpy, ready to shoot her so that Dean could stab her with the silver. Dean winced, his hand going up to finger the healing cut. The concussion had hurt, and he knew it was chiefly Sam's fault.

But he had blurred, fuzzy memories of the time immediately after his collision with the tree. Memories of a panicked voice calling his name. Shaking hands touching his neck, feeling for his pulse. Sammy's voice, hitching with suppressed tears. Sam had been terrified. Dean had himself experienced that frantic fear of searching for signs of life in a limp and unmoving sibling. Not knowing whether Dean was alive, knowing that his brother's condition was his fault, would have been enough of a punishment in itself for the sensitive Sam. Sam's behaviour in the days since the hunt, his hovering, his constant checking that Dean was alright, showed that.

And Sam had killed the harpy. Alone, while Dean was unconscious. He'd managed to wield both shotgun and knife and bring down a foe which even their father might have struggled to handle by himself. Had their father taken that into account when he'd formulated Sam's punishment? Did he even _know_?

Dean shifted uneasily. He was not naive enough to imagine that his father was infallible. He knew the oldest Winchester made mistakes, and never more than in his dealings with Sam. But he instinctively wanted to trust his father, to assume that he knew what he was doing, and it was oddly unsettling to face the idea that he was so out of touch with his younger son.

He pinched the bridge of his nose with thumb and index finger, and sighed softly into the darkness. He was too tired to want to think this through now. He just wanted to go back to sleep, to forget about the complications of his family for a while.

His eyes slid shut, and then opened again, reluctantly.

_Sammy..._

What the hell was taking the kid so long?

Dean frowned, suddenly wide awake again. Even if Sam had got up seconds before Dean had woken, he'd still been out of bed for an unnecessarily long time. There was only so much one could do in a bathroom at two in the morning.

He lay for a moment, staring alertly at the bathroom door. There were no strange noises from behind it.

There were no noises at all.

Dean ran a hand through his spiky hair, sighed, and then sat up.

_I need to take a leak._

_Well, I drank coffee before bed so I'm pretty sure I do. _

He padded quietly across to the door, glanced once at his sleeping father, and tapped very lightly on the door.

"Sam? You done in there?"

Lights gleamed briefly through the thin motel curtains as some other resident returned. Across the room bedsprings creaked as his father stirred and settled again.

There was no sound from the bathroom. No answer from Sam.

Dean knocked again, a little harder this time.

"Sammy? Is everything okay?" His voice was still a whisper, still quiet, indicating nothing of the tendrils of worry that were beginning to coil inside him.

"Dean?" The sleepy voice from across the room didn't sound very happy. "What's going on?"

"I don't know." Dean put his ear against the door. "Sammy, answer me, man!"

He heard the bed creak again as his father raised himself on one elbow.

He almost didn't hear the voice on the other side of the door.

"Dean..." It was nearly inaudible, and the faint tinkling of alarm bells in his head became a deafening clangor. His hand went to the handle.

"I'm coming in, Sam!" Without waiting for a response, he thrust the door open.

*************************************************

Fire and ice.

The pain burned in him, through him, his back, his shoulder. A tiny spark where his teeth dug into his lip. Freezing tiles against his bare arm and the narrow strip of naked skin where t-shirt pulled away from sweat pants.

_Dean..._

_Help me..._

_Need you..._

Soft knocking, nearby. A hundred million miles away. Whispering.

_What... don't..._

_Door. Someone at the door._

_Help me..._

_Dean..._

_Dad... _

_Not Dad... Dad'll be angry..._

_Dean's mad too._

_Please... can't... _

_Can't do this... _

_Somebody help me._

_Don't be mad... can't help it..._

_Tried..._

_Tried so hard..._

Knocking again. Whispering. Louder now.

_Angry_.

'_m sorry... 'm sorry..._

"Sammy..."

_Help me... help me, Dean..._

"Dean..." His mouth fell open. To call for help. To scream out the agony, the horrible fear and helplessness and need. "Dean..."

It was a whimper, a breathless moan.

His hand crushed against his mouth and his teeth clenched as the door slammed open.

**********************************************

Consternation held Dean motionless for a brief moment, still clutching the door handle. He wasn't sure what he'd expected, what he'd imagined he'd see. But this was worse. Sam looked... Sam was...

"Sammy!" Knees thudded painfully on unforgiving porcelain as he dropped down beside his brother. "What the hell..."

Sam was ghastly pale, the harsh fluorescent light casting a gloss over the sweat on his face. He was curled on his side, hunched around the arm which he'd wrapped around his middle. The other hand was pressed against his mouth. It was an oddly familiar gesture, something Dean had seen hundreds of times, but never in the last ten years at least. Sam was _sucking his thumb_?

"Sammy? What is it? What's wrong?" His hand went to his brother's shoulder, tentative, not sure whether the touch would hurt Sam more. The rigidity under his fingers ratcheted his fear up a notch.

A shiver went through the figure curled on the ground. Then Sam's hand reached out blindly and gripped the fabric of Dean's sweat pants.

"D-dean..."

Dean's other hand went automatically to the clutching fingers and his eyes followed the movement. For the second time he froze.

Blood was trickling down Sam's hand.

It wasn't streaming. There wasn't even that much of it. It was the cause that was so alarming.

Sam hadn't been sucking his thumb.

He'd bitten into it.

"_Dad!_" Dean heard the panic in his voice, and the thud from the next room as his father's feet hit the ground. His hand hovered. Sam's shoulder... arm... head... He wanted to comfort, was terrified he'd make things worse. "Sammy! What's wrong? C'mon, dude, talk to me..."

Blue-green eyes shifted, glassy.

"H-hurts..." His voice broke down, became a wordless keening deep in his throat. Dean had never heard his little brother make a sound like that. It scared the hell out of him.

"Sam?! Dean, what's going on?"

Dean hadn't heard his father drop down beside him.

"I don't know, Dad, I found him like this. Dad, his thumb..." The thought that anyone could be in that much pain was disturbing. That it was his little brother was horrifying. He shuffled a little closer and let his hand rest on Sam's shoulder.

He heard the sharp intake of breath as his father saw the blood on Sam's hand, and the teeth marks which told their own story. John reached out and felt his younger son's face and forehead.

"He's a little feverish. What hurts, Sam? Is it your stomach?"

"Mmm..." There was a brief flash of something other than pain in Sam's eyes as they shifted to his father, but it was gone too quickly for either older Winchester to identify. His grip tightened convulsively on the fingers Dean had wrapped around his hand.

John and Dean exchanged glances.

"It's probably stomach flu. Let's get you back to bed, Sam." John was frowning, but his hands were gentle as he manoeuvred his younger son into a sitting position. Sam hunched forward, moaning softly, and pulled his legs up, resting his head against his knees. "Come on, son..."

Together Dean and John managed to get him to his feet, still almost doubled over. Sam tilted sideways as he stood, and would have fallen if Dean hadn't caught hold of him. Dean's arms went round his brother as Sam slumped against him. He could feel the shivers that quaked through him.

"C'mon, Sammy... that's it, bro..." Dean's hand pressed against Sam's back, as much for reassurance as support. "You're gonna be fine..." He heard the rasping intake of breath as Sam seemed to gather what little strength he still had. Sam's back straightened slightly. Then he pulled away, out of Dean's hold.

"S-sorry... 'm okay..." He staggered across to the bed and dropped onto it in what was close to a collapse.

_No, bro... you're not okay. And what's with the 'sorry'?_

Dean followed his brother. Sam lay huddled on his side, legs dangling over the edge, and Dean lifted them onto the bed and pulled the blankets over the tight curl of sick boy. He gently pushed Sam across and sank down on the bed next to him as their father came across with a glass of water. He sat down on Sam's other side.

"Sam? Here's some Tylenol."

A shaky hand accepted the tablets. Sam lifted his head and tried to take the glass from his father, but his grip was feeble and the water sloshed, almost spilling. His lip quivered.

"S-sorry... sorry, Dad..."

This time Dean saw his own frown mirrored on his father's face.

"It's okay, son. I'll hold it for you."

Sam gulped the water down, and then slumped back onto the pillow, pulling the blankets tighter around him. His eyes closed, but the tight lines bracketing his mouth showed that he wasn't asleep. His breath came in short gasps.

"Sammy, why didn't you tell us you were feeling sick?"

The dark lashes flickered and lifted.

"N-not sick... 'm okay... D-deee...." His voice trailed off into a whimper, his mouth twisting as he swallowed convulsively. Dean, recognising the expression, pulled him up and over the edge of the bed just as he was violently sick again.

"Okay...okay, Sammy... you'll feel better now... " Dean gripped his shoulder, mumbling soothingly in his ear, and tugged him gently back down when he was done. Sam pulled his knees up against his chest and pressed his forehead against Dean's leg.

Dean's hand shifted so that it rested on Sam's head. Sam blinked slowly.

"Okay, bro. It's okay... why don't you try and sleep?"

********************************************************

His head jerked up. Green eyes darted, confused. What... why... the light was on... why was he sitting up?

_I must have fallen asleep._

_Sam..._

Sam had shifted closer. He was pressed hard against Dean's thigh, and his fingers were twisted in the fabric of his brother's night wear. As Dean looked down, a faint shudder seemed to ripple through him.

"Sammy?"

He could feel the heat radiating off the body leaning against him.

"Sam?"

Sam shivered again. His head turned.

"De..." His teeth were clenched so hard that his jaw quivered.

"You okay, bro?" Dean's hand slid against Sam's neck, clammy with sweat, and found the carotid pulse. It raced under his fingertips.

"H-hurts, De...." His breath hitched, soft, short gasps. He turned his head sharply on the pillow and his fingers dug painfully into Dean's leg. "Dean... _hurts_..."

"Okay. Okay, Sammy. Dad!" Dean curled his hand around the fingers gripping his leg. On the other bed his father lifted his head, blinking. "Dad, Sam's in a lot of pain here."

The oldest Winchester rubbed his eyes with thumb and index finger, came off the bed and leant over his son. He rested the back of his hand against Sam's forehead. Dean saw the frown that crossed his face.

"Sam? How bad is the pain? Scale of one to ten?"

For a moment it looked as if Sam wasn't going to answer. His eyes were closed, and Dean wondered if he'd drifted off again. Then he saw the wetness trail from under the dark lashes.

"Eight.... n-nine..."

Dean's eyes met his father's and for the first time he saw alarm mirrored in them.

Sam had broken his leg once, being thrown by a demon-possessed librarian. He'd shattered his femur. Dean could still remember the nauseating sight of white bone protruding through torn muscle, blood soaking into shredded once-blue jeans and pooling on dirty cement.

Sam had admitted to a seven on that occasion.

And he hadn't cried.

**SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN**

So... let me know what you think...


	5. Chapter 5

Lights flashed, repetitively alternating bright and dark. Through the seat the vibrations rumbled, almost soothing, lending a false sense of security. Of peace. Dean looked down as the current streetlamp passed them. Its yellow glow fell over the interior of the truck, illuminating it for a brief second before fading as its predecessors had done.

Sam's face was buried in his jacket, his fingers curled into the fabric with a white-knuckled grip. Dean could feel the damp warmth against his skin, the sweat of fever and unbearable pain, and the tears that Sam was no longer able to fight. His arm tightened around his brother as he felt a shiver go through him.

"You okay there, bro?" His voice was quiet, too soft to be heard by his father in the front seat.

Sam's head turned a little.

"Tired, De... 'm so tired..." Exhaustion was in the thin whisper. Dean bent his head.

"I know... I know, dude. You're gonna be fine. We'll get you to the hospital and they'll give you the good stuff and then you can just sleep..." He wasn't sure if Sam was even listening. His eyes were shut. Dean didn't stop talking, though, the deep muttering almost inaudible against the throb of the engine.

"It's okay... it's okay, Sammy... you're gonna be fine. Just relax... I gotcha... you're gonna be okay..." He wasn't sure who the reassurances were for, the semi-conscious boy or the big brother who held him so tightly. He didn't want to admit it, even to himself, but he knew Sam was seriously ill. This wasn't just a stomach bug, a twenty-four hour flu. The soft agonised whimpers, the naked pain in his brother's eyes, the way he clung to Dean, sent icy darts of fear through him even as he mumbled comfortingly.

In the rear view mirror John glanced at his sons.

"Dean? How's he doing?"

Dean didn't answer, but his gaze met his father's briefly and John's lips pressed together as he turned his attention back to the road.

The hospital was bigger than they'd expected, an ugly three-storey brick building set stolidly alongside a large gravel parking area. Experience pointed them in the direction of the Emergency unit, where an ambulance stood, doors open.

Dean was already shifting across the seat as the truck drew to a halt. Sam was tall now, almost as tall as Dean, and though his weight had not caught up with the added inches he was by no means light. Dean knew he should find a porter or some other member of staff armed with a gurney. But he couldn't bring himself to break free of his brother's grip, to remove those desperately clutching fingers. Sam huddled tightly against him as he hadn't for years. He needed the physical security. Dean needed to give it to him.

He staggered a little under the dead weight before regaining his balance. John glanced at him, as if momentarily debating whether to offer his help, and then obviously decided Dean didn't want it.

Dean didn't. Sam was even heavier than he'd expected, and he knew his back would complain the next day. The youngest Winchester was strong and able, and undeniably going to end up bigger than Dean, but the Dean who had wrapped toddler arms around his baby brother and rescued him from a burning house had lost none of that protectiveness over the intervening years. Now an adult Dean cradled his lanky teenage brother and carried him into the hospital.

* * *

Marcus Webber pulled the glove on with a snap of taut latex and glanced at the nurse.

"What have we got, Sophie?"

"Sixteen-year-old male with severe upper abdominal pain and vomiting. Temperature's 101.8, pulse 110, blood pressure 95 over 60."

"Gastro?" Dr. Webber worked his fingers into the second glove, flexed them, and looked up enquiringly at the silence. Sophie's usually placid face was drawn into a frown.

"Unlikely. Not with that spectacular bruising."

"Bruises?" It was the doctor's turn for the frown. "Who brought him in?"

"Father and brother."

"What's the story?"

"The brother found him collapsed on the bathroom floor. Apparently there were no signs that anything was wrong before tonight."

Dr. Webber didn't miss the slight emphasis on the "apparently". His eyes narrowed a little.

"And the bruises?"

"They didn't mention those. We found them when we put on the gown."

Dr. Webber closed his eyes briefly. Then he took a deep breath.

"Let's take a look at –"

"Sam. Sam Winchester."

Dr. Webber had been on call for thirty-three hours straight. He wanted a shower, a large plate of his wife's spaghetti Bolognese and a very long sleep. He did not want to deal with all the ramifications of what he suspected might be a case of child abuse.

But none of that was the fault of the child in question, the thin teenager who lay on the examination table in a tight curl on his side, sweaty dark strands of hair flopping over shut eyes from which slow tears trickled. His fingers were clenched in a death grip on the blanket covering him.

"Sam?"

Slits of green showed as shadowed eyelids lifted reluctantly.

"I'm Dr. Webber. I'm going to take a look at your abdomen, okay? Sophie will help you move onto your back."

"N-no... it hurts..."

"It hurts when you lie on your back? Is it better on your side?"

"Mmm."

"Okay, then, Sam. I'll try to be quick."

The nurse hadn't been lying about the bruises. Angry greenish-purple stained a wide band across the middle of his patient's torso. More alarming to the experienced eye of Dr. Webber, though, were the apparently newer blotches on the sides and around the navel. Sophie saw the doctor's nostrils clamp, a characteristic sign that he was disturbed.

"Where exactly does it hurt, Sam?" Whatever he was thinking, his voice was still calm and reassuring. Sam blinked at him, and one hand released the blanket.

"H-here..." His hand moved weakly. "an'... m' back..." He shivered, and clutched at the blanket again as an involuntary whimper escaped again.

"When did it start hurting?"

Neither of them missed the quiver that passed across Sam's face at that question.

"In... in the night..."

"Can you tell me how you got those bruises?"

"I... I fell... tripped..."

The doctor's eyes met the nurse's. Neither of them had missed the old scars that littered the limbs and torso of their patient.

"Sam?" Dr. Webber's voice was gentle. "Does your father or your brother ever hurt you? Hit you or... or anything like that?"

For the first time something other than pain was visible on the teenager's face.

"No." His voice was weak, but the certainty in it was absolute. Bloodshot blue-green eyes looked directly at the doctor. "If you think... th-they're abusing me... then you're wrong."

Dr. Webber was silent. Years of work in an inner city hospital with its never-ending parade of small victims of domestic violence had taught him not to believe a child who denied it. But the complete sincerity in this boy's face gave him pause.

Sophie, who had met Sam's aggressive and intimidating family, was less ready to accept what he was saying.

"How did you fall, Sam?"

"In the forest... m-my foot went to sleep, 'n I... 'n I stood up too quickly...'n...'n fell. Over a t-tree trunk." His voice was fading.

"When was this?"

"S-Saturday..." Sam's breath hitched, and he shivered again. He missed the glances the two adults exchanged. The brief spark of indignation on behalf of his father and brother flickered and died, taking with it the last of his energy.

"Sam?" Dr. Webber's hand went to his patient's wrist as he saw the dark head loll sideways. The heartbeat under his fingertips was rapid and thready.

Wet eyelashes flickered.

"Dean..." The voice was a broken whisper. "...want...D-de..."

* * *

Sam was the one who went for the clever girls. They bonded in the exhilaration of long complicated assignments and surreptitiously held hands in the library while reading textbooks together.

Or so Dean said.

Dean had always preferred his women to have rather more visible attributes. In his opinion, intelligent women usually wanted to waste time in conversation when they could be occupied more... beneficially... and reading was an over-rated skill, anyway.

Or so Sam said.

The receptionist at this hospital was amply endowed with physical charms. Blonde curls, big blue eyes, a figure to make men salivate... under normal circumstances Dean would have had her number in two minutes flat. Even though she had to be at least five years his senior.

He was beginning to think, though, that there was some validity in Sam's attraction for intelligence.

It was the sixth time he'd asked if there was any news of Sam. It was the sixth time she'd looked at him with those fluttering dark lashes and said she hadn't heard anything.

It was at least the hundredth time he'd wanted to take something heavy and hurl it against the ugly yellow waiting room wall.

She _worked_ there. It was her _job_ to hear things. How could she know _nothing_? It had been over two hours since they'd brought Sam in and she couldn't even tell them where he was?

He turned abruptly away from the obviously flirtatious smile and strode back to where his father sat staring moodily at the shabby carpet.

"Sit down, Dean. They'll tell us when they know something." John Winchester didn't even glance up at his son as he spoke. Years of unquestioning obedience had Dean dropping into the uncomfortable plastic chair beside his father, but his expression grew even more thunderous.

He knew his father was concerned about Sam. For all their constant arguing and his father's sometimes overbearing attitude, there was no doubt that he loved his younger son just as much as he did the elder. Dean just wasn't sure that his father realised quite how bad the situation was. Dean was no doctor, but he knew his brother. He knew his reactions to pain, to illness. Sam was sensitive, and ridiculously in touch with his emotions, but he hadn't been brought up by an ex-Marine without learning to take knocks. Whatever was wrong with him now was bad enough to break through that stoicism, and that scared Dean as nothing had in a long time.

It wasn't his father who'd found Sam crumpled on the bathroom floor. It wasn't his father who'd had desperate fingers digging into his leg. His father hadn't held that shivering rigid body on the backseat of the truck, or tried helplessly to soothe the soft agonised whimpers. His father thought it was a really bad case of stomach flu.

Dean knew stomach flu. He'd had it before. Sam had had it before.

This wasn't it.

He fiddled with a loose thread on the knee of his jeans and tried not to imagine what could be taking so long.

"_H-hurts, De..."_

The thread broke with a soft snap.

_They'd better hurry the hell up and get out here and tell us what's going on. They'd better fix Sammy up and sort out whatever's wrong. There'd better be a really good reason for them to have taken so long – no, a really good reason means something's really wrong – they'd better – _

"_Hurts, De..."_

There was nothing he could do to quiet the echo of his little brother's voice in his head.

He shifted in his seat, glanced at his watch, remembered he'd left it back at the motel, glanced at the wall clock instead. It had been at least three minutes since he last spoke to Einstein at the desk – maybe now she'd know something –

"Family of Sam Winchester?"

The doctor looked tired, thinning light brown hair standing up untidily above a face that was creased and worn with fatigue.

He also looked angry.

"John Winchester. Sam's father." The oldest Winchester sounded a little gravelly, but he was making an effort to be polite.

"I'm Dr. Webber. I've been attending to your son." He gave the waiting room a cursory glance, saw that, for once, it was empty, and jerked his head in the direction of the chairs they'd just vacated.

Dean didn't wait for him to speak.

"How's Sam? Is he okay?"

Dr. Webber looked at him.

"You're his brother?"

"Yeah. What's wrong with him?"

The doctor's hand thrusting through his hair demonstrated the reason for its disarray.

"As a result of the abdominal trauma he sustained Sam has developed a severe case of pancreatitis. Had you brought him in when it happened we might have been able to prevent it but unfortunately the delay means that there are already significant haemorrhagic infiltrations –"

"Abdominal trauma?"

"When what happened?"

Dean and John spoke together, effectively cutting the doctor off.

His grim expression deepened into what was close to anger.

"I have to admit that I'm shocked you didn't bring him in earlier. A fall like that should never be taken lightly, especially in a child, and even if that wasn't enough the extensive bruising should have warned you that something was wrong. There was evidence of mild internal bleeding as well – "

Again he was interrupted.

"A fall like what?" John's voice was almost a bark.

This time there was no doubt of the anger in the doctor's face, although his voice was under rigid control.

"Like the one in the forest. On Saturday."

John turned to Dean, an incredulous frown on his face.

"Sammy fell?"

Dean was frowning too, as he searched through the hazy blur of memory. Brief flashes, images... Sam's voice... Sam's trembling terrified hands... the headache from hell... the insane shriek of the harpy... Then there was a split-second impression, of Sam sprawled across a tree-trunk as the monstrous bird-woman bore down on him. His eyes widened as he tried frantically to remember more. Sam had... he must have fallen... but... but he'd been okay... he'd killed the monster, and helped Dean out of there, driven the Impala back to the motel and dealt with his unconscious older brother...

"Dean! What happened?"

"Dad, I... I don't remember – I think he did fall, but it's all a blur. I was so out of it..." Horror was draining the colour from his cheeks. Sam had been hurt. Sam had been badly hurt. And there'd been nobody around to help. He'd had to deal with the harpy and Dean, all the while struggling with his own injuries.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Dean could see the shock in his father's face fighting with anger.

"I would have, but I was concussed." He stared at his father, and for the first time a thought occurred to him. His voice went tight. "If it comes to that, why didn't you check that he was okay when you got back that night?"

"Dean – "

"What happened that night, Dad? Did you ask him what went down on the... uh... in the forest?" Dean could hear the attack in his own voice and a part of him was startled that he'd even dare to talk to the man that way. He never fought with his father, or even raised his voice to him.

But this was Sam, and Sam was sick because one, or both, of them had been negligent, and that overrode even his sense of his father's absolute authority.

He could see from the clench of his father's jaw that the older man didn't see it that way.

"_Dean –_ "

"Excuse me!" The words were polite, but the tone was perilously close to a snap. Dr. Webber was glaring at them. "I'd like to discuss my patient, if you don't mind. You can fight about who's at fault afterwards." He cleared his throat with a sharp cough.

Dean could feel the simmering anger sitting next to him, but his father nodded briefly.

"Go on."

"As I said, there are already significant haemorrhagic infiltrations, which, compounded by the internal bleeding, has resulted in severe third space sequestration of fluids. Basically, a large amount of fluid has leaked into the abdominal cavity, and as a result he was dangerously close to shock when he arrived. We are treating that with aggressive IV fluid replacement. He's going to need nasoenteral feeding until this settles, to rest the pancreas."

"What about the pain?" Dean cut across the flow of jargon.

"Yes. We're administering narcotics for that."

"But he's going to be okay." It wasn't a question.

Dr. Webber looked less than confident for the first time since he'd appeared. He thrust his fingers through his hair again.

"Many cases resolve without difficulty –"

"What about Sam's case?" It was John who spoke this time.

"Well, I'm not trying to scare you, Mr. Winchester, but the fact that he's already hypovolaemic is cause for some concern. This does appear to be a serious case, but we will be monitoring him carefully in the ICU so that any possible complications can be caught early. There's no reason to believe that he won't make a full recovery."

"_Cause for some concern..."_

"_A serious case..."_

"_Possible complications..."_

"_ICU."_

"Can we see him?" Dean broke through the words echoing horribly in his head. Something of what he was feeling must have come through in his voice. Dr. Webber looked at him, his grim expression softening infinitesimally.

"Are you Dean? Sam was asking for you. He should be settled in by now, if you'd like to follow me."

* * *


	6. Chapter 6

Urgh. This chapter has been my nightmare. My muse had an existential crisis, and we are still not on speaking terms. Several times I have been seriously tempted to take the whole thing into the back yard, sprinkle salt on it and set it on fire.

Having said all that, huge and enthusiastic thanks to all the wonderful people who have reviewed, favourite or alerted this story! You guys keep me going...

**Warning**: this is much longer than usual. Somehow it just wouldn't end. My own personal Mystery Spot chapter. Hope you don't mind...

* * *

Dean had been Sam's older brother for over sixteen years. He'd seen him sick, feverish and sweaty, vomiting, snoring heavily and surrounded by used Kleenexes. He'd even seen him in hospital before, after the incident with the librarian. Sam had looked bad then, bruised and pale and extremely uncomfortable with his leg in traction.

Dean had never seen him like this.

Sam was a lively sleeper. He thrashed around, mumbled, cried out, and usually woke up with the bedclothes on the floor and his feet on his pillow. Even in the rare moments of quiet, he sprawled on his bed with arms and legs outflung.

Now he was still. He lay curled half on his side, like a discarded puppet with its strings trailing everywhere. Dean could see IV lines in both arms, leads to the heart monitor, a tube snaking from the oxygen cannula under his nose. His tall little brother looked suddenly small and vulnerable. He looked helpless, at the mercy of the impersonal machines. His eyes were shut, his lashes dark crescents against his white face.

When Dean had reluctantly left him, steeling himself against his brother's whimpers, Sam had been writhing in agony. It was a relief now to see the pain smoothed from his face. But his stillness, the motionless limp fingers and huddled limbs under the hospital sheets, were somehow just as worrying. Dean couldn't tell if he was asleep or unconscious. He hated not knowing.

"Sam?" Their father's voice was quiet. His hand reached out and rested lightly on his younger son's arm where it emerged from the starched white gown.

Thick lashes fluttered.

"D-dad..." The slurred syllable was testament to the drugs. Sam blinked drowsily up at them both.

"How're you feeling, bro?" A little of the apprehension Dean was feeling subsided at Sam's response to their father's voice.

"Mmm..." Sam swallowed thickly. "F-fuzzy..."

Dean grinned.

"It's called 'stoned', dude. They've got you on some heavy stuff here."

Sam peered owlishly at him.

"Dean..."

The grin faded a little, although the twinkle still lurked, and when he spoke again Dean's voice was gentler.

"How long were you feeling sick, Sammy? Why didn't you tell us?"

Sam's head moved a little on the pillow, his gaze shifting from Dean to John and back.

"Uhh..."

"The doc says you have some pretty impressive bruises. From the hunt, right? You should have told us you were hurt."

Sam swallowed again.

"I... it wasn't... I was okay..."

John's hand lifted from Sam's arm as he crossed his own over his chest.

"That's sh – nonsense, Sam. You weren't okay at all."

Dean's eyes flicked to his father's face, narrowing at the tone.

"Dad –"

"You should have told me something was wrong. You should have told Dean."

"_Dad_ –"

"You had internal bleeding. You damaged your pancreas. If you'd only admitted something was wrong it could have been fixed up before it got so serious. It was irresponsible, Sam!"

"'m sorry... 'm sorry..." Sam was shrinking back against the pillows. "D-di'n't wanna c-complain..."

"You know we don't just ignore injuries, and yet you neglected this even when you knew –"

"_Dad!_"

Dean's voice cracked across his father's.

"Stop it, Dad! Just... just stop!" The green eyes looked almost black. Dean was glaring at him, his jaw clenched. One hand closed around Sam's where the youngest Winchester had unconsciously caught hold of the hem of his jacket.

Sam's gaze darted between his father and brother. His eyes were huge and wet.

"'m sorry, Dad... y' said, mustn't complain... mustn't whine 'f I g-got h-h-hurt..." His voice quivered. The soft incessant beep of the heart monitor was speeding up. "D-di'n't think it... it w-was so b-bad..." He was beginning to shiver.

"Sammy..." Dean was still glaring at his father, but his voice as he addressed his brother was even gentler than before.

"Sam, calm down –"

"D-dean..." Sam swallowed. Then his face twisted and his body heaved as he retched violently.

John reached for the call button at the same moment as Dean reached for Sam, but the change in the tone of the monitor had already been noticed and a nurse came quickly in. Sam was a mess, still heaving miserably even though there was nothing more to bring up.

"Excuse me... excuse me, sir..."

Somehow, without realising it, Dean found himself manoeuvred away from the bed to where his father had already stepped back. Sam stopped vomiting and lay still. He was the one motionless part of the scene, the lone unmoving aspect amidst the efficient activity of the nurses around him. His eyes were shut.

"I've administered a sedative, sir," the senior nurse told John. "You might as well try to get some sleep, and come back in the morning." The words were a suggestion. The tone made it obvious that it was not. Her eyes were not exactly antagonistic, but they were not friendly.

"I'm not leaving my brother." Suggestion or otherwise, Dean wasn't going to listen. He wasn't going to abandon Sammy. They'd already done enough in not noticing that he was hurt and sick.

The nurse smiled, but her eyes remained determined.

"I understand, sir, but I'm afraid visiting hours are over."

Dean wanted to tell her what she could do with the visiting hours, but Sam's eyes opened then.

"Sammy?" He pushed past the woman and went to the bedside.

The blue-green eyes were glassy. Sam blinked slowly at him, already under the influence of the sedative.

"S-sorry... my... f-fault..."

"What?"

"D-deserve this..."

"Sam? Sammy!"

But Sam was asleep.

* * *

"What was that?"

John breathed heavily, glancing at Dean and then away without answering. The waiting room chairs were unusually comfortable, upholstered in a soft green fabric, but he looked uneasy. Out of place.

"Dad." Dean wasn't going to let him off. "What the hell was that? Going on in there?"

John tilted his head back, stretched tight muscles in his neck, stared at the ceiling without making eye-contact with his son.

"Sam should know he mustn't just ignore injuries."

"Sam is sick, Dad. He's in ICU, for crying out loud, and you just walk in there and start tearing into him?"

"He should have told me, or you, that he was hurt. I obviously don't want you boys crying over every little bruise but this was serious and he just kept it quiet until it got to this point. We have to be able to trust each other. What if we'd been on a hunt and he'd collapsed then?"

Dean flung himself up from the chair in which he had been sitting, sending it skittering back on the linoleum. He stalked to the window and stared out into the darkness. When he spoke his voice was tight.

"What happened that night?"

"What –"

"The night of the hunt. I was completely out of it. I barely remember the hunt itself."

"From what I heard from Sam, he was distracted and the harpy got the drop on him. And then she threw you when you came at her."

Dean turned.

"Yes Dad, I got that part. I meant afterwards. You were over in wherever it was ganking that poltergeist. Did Sam call you?"

"I got back later that night. You were both asleep, at the motel."

"So Sam killed the harpy, got me back to the motel and fixed me up, by himself. And hurt."

"Dean, I'm not trying to say –"

"Dad, I was concussed but I'm not stupid. Sam's been training like I've never seen before. What did you say to him? Did you ask him what happened? Did you even ask if he was okay, or did you just tear into him?"

"Dean, you were seriously hurt because Sam had been careless. I'd warned him just that day that that could happen!"

"Yeah, I was hurt. But as it turns out, so was Sam. And nobody sorted him out. All he got was you shouting at him, and a whole load of extra training which was probably exactly what he didn't need. I've gotta say, Dad, he was freaking me out in there just now. What's with "you said I mustn't complain if I got hurt"? And then he said he _deserves_ this? Yeah, okay, he screwed up, he should have been paying attention, but how many times do you or I do the wrong thing? It just happened that _this_ time it turned out badly, but it could have been fine. He made one little mistake, and you've got his head so messed up that he thinks he deserves to be sick!"

John was on his feet now. He stumped to the opposite window. Dean couldn't see his face, but from the tension in his father's neck and shoulders he could see that he was angry. Dean wouldn't have expected anything else: he was, in all honesty, surprised his father hadn't erupted at him. It was Sam's role to shout and argue, and Dean's to accept unquestioningly whatever their father said. But this was more than he could take.

"Sam's a good hunter, Dad. Okay, he doesn't enjoy it like we do. But that doesn't mean he doesn't do a good job. He works hard, doubly hard, actually, because he wants to get good grades as well, but all he ever hears from you is negative comments."

"It worries me, Dean." John turned, the turmoil on his face evident. "I know he's a good hunter, and I know he works hard. But this – this is exactly why I get angry. His heart isn't in it, and so you get hurt, and he gets hurt. I know we make mistakes, we do the wrong thing, and we get away with it sometimes, and sometimes we don't, but we can't afford to be careless. I worry about both of you, and the only way I know to protect you is to be hard on you, so that you won't make mistakes and get yourselves killed."

"I know, Dad. I understand that. But I don't think Sam does. He just thinks you think he's useless."

"I don't think he's useless, but sometimes I don't know that he really realises what we're up against."

Dean dragged his hand down his face. His voice was tired, the anger draining from it.

"He does realise, Dad. But face it. This time? It was you he was up against."

* * *

Dean blinked, turned his head and cursed softly as the night of sleeping in the chair made itself known. He curved his spine to release the knots which had taken up residence.

"Di'n't know... you were into yoga."

His head jerked round at the hoarse voice. Sam was looking at him, eyes bloodshot and exhausted, a shadowy version of his usual grin curling his mouth.

"Only you would imagine this was yoga, pansy-boy." Dean snorted. "Anyway, you're the one who gets to lie in that comfortable bed... hot nurses giving you sponge baths..."

Sam's grin deepened a little, but he didn't answer. Even as Dean's eyebrows moved suggestively he was noting the lack of response, the absence of a comeback, and the nasty little hand that had been holding his insides tightened its grip. Sam should be getting better. He should be making some lame retort, and defending the decidedly not hot nurses. He shouldn't still be lying there, looking sicker than when he'd come in.

"Dean?"

Something of what he was thinking must have shown in his face. Sam looked a little worried. Dean coughed, and took a gulp of the cold coffee sitting on the bedside cabinet, making the most of his involuntary grimace at the bitter aftertaste and hoping Sam wouldn't pursue it.

He should have known better.

"What's wrong?"

_You're looking sicker than you should and it's freaking me out. _

_You're sick, full stop. You're in ICU. _

_I should have forced you to tell me what was wrong because I knew something was. If only I hadn't listened to you when you told me you were okay, you _would_ be okay. I'm all angry with Dad because he didn't check that you weren't hurt but I'm just about as much to blame._

"Dean?"

"Sam, why didn't you tell me you were hurt?"

He hadn't meant it to come out so abruptly. Sam's eyes widened and he slid down a little in the bed. With the absence of the grin he looked suddenly much worse.

"I'm sorry –"

"_No_." The monosyllable sounded harsh. "It's not your fault, Sam, you hear me? It's not your fault."

"B-but you got hurt –"

"Yeah. I got hurt. And none of us has ever been hurt before."

"But I got distracted –"

"Okay. You screwed up. I got my head bashed. So?"

"S-so, I should have... been concentrating. I should have seen her coming."

"You're not the only one who makes mistakes, Sam. Dad makes them, I make them. Dad and I messed up here, not noticing that you were hurt."

Sam hunched his shoulders, his head dropping. Dean leant forward.

"Why didn't you tell me, Sammy? You must have been feeling sick before. Why didn't you say something?"

Sam's breath caught.

"I... I didn't think... I thought it wasn't bad."

"You were in so much pain you couldn't even stand. That's bad, Sam."

"It was my fault, Dean! I screwed up, and you got hurt. Dad had told me that would happen, and then it did. I couldn't make a huge fuss when there was no-one else to help you. A-and Dad said he didn't want me to whine and complain when I got myself hurt because I was stupid. He was so mad when he found out what happened. I thought he would think I was trying to get out of the punishment, or trying to get sympathy. D-dad thinks I'm w-weak, a-and useless, and I d-didn't want to make it worse, and I knew he'd be even madder if he knew I'd hurt myself as well." Sam looked utterly exhausted after this long speech. Even worse was the broken resignation in his eyes.

Dean was silent for a moment, digesting his brother's words. He felt the anger rising up towards his father again, and he forced it back.

"Okay, but Sammy, why didn't you tell me?"

"I... I thought... I thought you were m-mad too."

Dean stared at him. Sam thought he was angry. Sam thought he was angry?

"But – Sammy –"

"You thought the extra t-training was g-good. Y-you w-were c-cross when I k-kept asking you if... if... y-you w-were..." Sam's voice broke.

"No. _No_, Sam." He got up, sat down on the edge of the bed to face his brother. "I wasn't mad, you hear me? Okay, well, maybe a bit, at first, but only a little. I know you were upset, and sorry, and it was an accident. Like I said, I've made mistakes, and Dad has too. And bro, you killed that fugly monster all by yourself, while you were hurt. And got us both back to the motel. I think that cancels out being careless for one moment."

Sam's fingers were twisting in the blanket. Dean squelched down the chick-flick-o-meter that was chirping indignantly in the back of his head, and put his hand over his brother's, stilling it.

"Listen, dude. If you're hurt, I want to know. It's... well, it's my job to look out for you."

"B-but Dad –"

"Dad... Dad isn't always thinking what you think he is, Sammy. He's not very good at showing it, but he does care about us. _Both_ of us."

"He's s-still mad, Dean." Sam sounded very small and tired. His eyes were glassy with exhaustion and medication.

Dean sighed.

"Dad worries about us – you – and it comes out angry. He was upset that you got hurt and didn't tell him."

Sam's head turned. His eyes drooped closed, and then opened again.

"Don't hide it when you're hurt, bro, okay? You need to tell me, and let me worry about Dad." Dean could see that Sam was fading.

"Mmm. 'm s-sorry... De..." Sam's eyes were properly shut now, and Dean thought he'd fallen asleep. Then the hand in his twitched, and Sam's fingers clutched his thumb. It was exactly how a baby Sammy had held onto his big brother.

An hour later when their father came in Dean was still sitting on the edge of the bed in the same position.

* * *

It was only too evident that the older Winchesters were not among Dr. Webber's favourite people. Dean guessed that he didn't suspect them of outright abuse, as no CPS officials had made an appearance, but he clearly believed that Sam was neglected.

On some level that bothered Dean. It bothered him because Sam was truly the most important person in his life, the one for whom he would sacrifice everything. Sam didn't have everything money could buy, endless clothes and books and what have you that other boys his age did, but then those things didn't indicate a lack of neglect. What Dean could afford, Sam had.

Under normal circumstances he would have resented the doctor, with his cold eyes and clipped words. Dr. Webber didn't know them, or what they did. He didn't know the origins of Sam's scars. He didn't know that every one of those scars disturbed Dean even more than Sam, that Dean would rather have had them himself than see them on his little brother. But he didn't resent the doctor, because there was a small, honest and desperately guilty part of him that acknowledged the truth in what the man thought. It had been negligence, on this occasion. Sam was sick because neither John nor Dean had checked that he was alright. As much as he wanted to smack the doctor's disapproval back down his throat, he couldn't really argue.

And watching him now with Sam, Dean had to admit that the man was truly concerned about the youngest Winchester. Sam was uneasily asleep, his breathing too fast and his face too pale, and the doctor murmured quietly as he examined him, his hands gentle. His censure of Sam's father and brother were entirely because he seemed to care for Sam's well-being, and that was something of which Dean could only approve.

He was expecting him to be frowning when he straightened.

He wasn't expecting it to be a frown of concern.

"What is it?" Dean knew he hadn't imagined the doctor's disquiet when his father spoke.

The doctor glanced briefly at them, but didn't answer. He looked at the nurse.

"Have his latest bloods come back yet?"

She disappeared, returning moments later with a computer printout which she handed to the doctor. He scanned the sheet, looked at Sam and then back to the papers in his hand, and his mouth quirked as if he was chewing on his lip. Then, at last, he looked directly at his patient's family.

"I'd like a word outside."

* * *

He shifted uncomfortably, water oozing in wet sneakers. The shotgun was heavy in his hand as he peered through the leaves.

Where was Dean?

Dad... the angry voice echoed in his head. Those words...

Where was Dean?

The wind whipped around his face, tangling the soft strands of dark hair over his eyes. It was cold. He shivered, hard, and gripped the shotgun tighter.

What were they doing out here again? Some kind of hunt?

Wendigo? Chupacabra... No... no, harpy, that was it.

Where was Dean?

Wild screeching, and a violent rush.

"_Sam_!"

Then Dean was flying through the air, tossed by the harpy, and Sam was staring as his brother hit the tree and slithered down, and the monster was tearing at him with those vicious claws. Dean was screaming, and Sam was screaming, but he couldn't get there, he couldn't reach his brother, and the shotgun was so heavy in his hand and his feet refused to move. And Dean was lying on the ground, blood slowly forming into little rivulets from his shredded body, and his eyes were open and staring at Sam, and even though he was dead Sam could still hear him screaming for help...

"Sam! Sam!"

"Dean... Dean... no...no no no... Dean..."

"Sam..."

Dean was dead and Sam had killed him.

"Dean..."

"Sammy!"

Firm hands were on his face, and he fought them because they were keeping him away, he needed to go to Dean, but the hands wouldn't let him. Dean was screaming, screaming for help, screaming because he was hurt, and he was dying, and he was dead...

"Dean... no... sorry... sorry..."

"Sam... Sammy... Sammy..."

* * *

Sam tossed restlessly, evidently struggling with the bedclothes and fighting some foe conjured up by his fevered imagination. Sweat was slick on his face, clinging to limp strands of hair and blurring with tears of pain or distress that slid lazily from half open eyes.

Dr. Webber had been closest to the door, and he reached his patient first, but his attempts to calm him were worse than useless. Sam fought the doctor's hands, muttering incoherently and breathing in sharp agitated gasps.

"No... no..."

"Sam –"

Dean knew they were walking a tightrope with this doctor, but Sam in distress had never been a sight to inspire him with caution. He pushed the man unceremoniously away and leant over the bed, one hand grasping his brother's while the other smoothed through the damp dark hair.

"Sammy. Sammy... wake up. Wake up, bro... it's okay... it's okay... it's just a dream."

"Dean... Dean..." The glazed green slits were unrecognising.

"Sammy, wake up... I'm here."

"No... no... Dean... sorry... sorry..."

Dean stiffened, and from across the bed he heard his father's indrawn breath. His hand moved to cup his brother's chin.

"Sam, you need to wake up... it's just a dream... Sammy..."

"Dean..." The heavy lids lifted a little. Sam's breath hitched on a delirious sob, and then he stilled as slow recognition dawned.

"Dean?"

"Yeah, bro, it's me."

"You... you died... harpy..."

"No. No, I'm fine, Sammy, see? It was just a dream."

"I couldn't... I tried to... to save you... couldn't... you died..."

Dean couldn't imagine what the doctor was making of this, but at that moment he didn't care.

"You did save me, Sammy, remember? This was just a dream. I'm fine, you hear me?"

"You died..." The horror was fading a little from the hoarse voice as Dean's words filtered through.

"No, I didn't. I'm fine, bro. I'm right here, with you."

Sam blinked wearily at him.

"Sorry..."

"Shh. It's okay, Sammy. You saved me, and I'm fine. You need to relax now, okay?" Dean's voice was soothing.

"'kay..." The purple-shadowed lids fell, and then lifted again halfway, as if in reassurance. "De..."

"Just try to get some sleep, Sam." John's voice was gruff. Two pairs of green eyes shifted in his direction and two hands tightened around each other, one seeking comfort and the other giving it.

"S-sorry... Dad..." Sam's lower lip quivered once. His gaze flicked momentarily to his brother and then he closed his eyes obediently. He was still breathing too quickly, almost gasping, as the terror of the dream lingered, and Dean didn't loosen his grip on his hand. He looked across the bed at his father, but the oldest Winchester's face was unreadable as he watched his younger son.

"Dad..."

Dr. Webber glanced at the monitor which traced his patient's too rapid heartbeat, and cleared his throat. John looked at him in what Dean guessed was relief at the interruption.

"You were going to tell us something... before..."

Dr. Webber nodded.

"Yes. I've been a little concerned with Sam's vitals. As I mentioned when he was admitted, sometimes complications can occur with pancreatitis and that's why we've been monitoring him in ICU. Unfortunately his latest blood counts confirm for certain what I suspected, that a systemic inflammatory response has developed."

"What does that mean?"

"Right now, not much. Sam was unstable when he came in, from the fluid loss, so we have been treating him as if SIRS was already present. We will be continuing with this treatment. There's no reason to believe that he won't respond favourably, although it is likely to extend the length of treatment."

John sighed. Dean recognised it for what it was, a little worried, a lot more impatient.

"So basically you're telling us that Sam is just about as sick as you thought he was when he came in."

Something flickered in the doctor's eyes and was almost immediately concealed behind professional dignity. Dr. Webber did not like his patient's father, but he wasn't going to show it.

"What I'm telling you is that this is a more serious case than I'd hoped. There was evidence when he came in that this might develop. I was hoping it wouldn't, but it did."

"But it's treatable." Dean didn't care what the doctor thought of his father, or of him. His concern was solely for the boy whose hand was lax in his, who was still breathing too fast even though he'd fallen asleep again. "Sam's gonna be fine, right?"

The pause before the doctor spoke was infinitesimal.

"It's treatable, certainly. It does increase the chance of further complications."

"Complications? Like what?"

"Shock. Or organ failure."

* * *

He was crouched on the ground. Wetness seeped through thin jeans, stung grazed hands. He could see the shotgun. It was there, inches away. Such a powerful weapon. Useful. Effective.

He was helpless to reach it. His hands were pinned. As much as he strained, fought to pick it up, his muscles were paralysed. Clawed feet thrashed in the rotting debris of the forest floor. Boots thudded. Dean was running for him, and the harpy was running for Dean.

Then she caught him, and Sam saw his face, eyes wide and shocked and pained, and his mouth, open in a scream that faded as he hit the tree and then the ground, and Sam's cry fought for release but was eternally caught in his throat.

And Dean was looking at him, green eyes that stared but saw nothing, and an open mouth that screamed but said nothing, and Dean was dead.

Then hands were shaking him, and his eyes were open and meeting those familiar green ones, not dead, not sightlessly staring. And the forest was gone, and the harpy and the gun that he couldn't reach, and he wanted to catch hold of his brother and cling to him because Dean was alive and alright, but his arms wouldn't move.

And he screamed, but somehow all that came out was a whimper, and there was so much he needed to say, but all he could say was his brother's name.

But that was enough. That had always been enough.

He was slipping, sliding away into the dim nothingness again, but he could hear Dean's voice and feel those familiar calloused hands holding his, because Dean knew what he needed, even when he couldn't tell him.

* * *

He could feel the recoil of the shotgun as he fired, shot after shot after shot, and they all went home. The harpy jerked violently with every bullet, and then with every thrust of the knife, but somehow it wasn't enough, and Sam could see the blood and hear the screams as those pitiless claws slashed and ripped and shredded.

And then she was gone, and Dean was sprawled out on the ground and there was so much blood, and Dean stared at him with dead green eyes and Sam screamed his brother's name but Dean didn't answer, because Dean was dead.

And his father was standing there, blocking the way where Sam fought the terrible heaviness to reach his brother, and his face was stony.

"You're useless on the hunt... you're careless and irresponsible... you're a pathetic son... worthless brother... "

Sam wanted to answer but the words were like little daggers, and Dean's eyes were accusing where they stared so blankly.

"You killed Dean... Dean is dead because of you..."

"No... no... Dean..."

"You killed him... you killed your own brother..."

"Dean... sorry... sorry..."

He was screaming, sobbing, because it was his fault and he deserved his father's anger and Dean was dead because of him and he'd never speak to his brother again and he'd never hunt with him again and it was because he was so useless and he'd been distracted, and Dean had taken the fall. And the pain was a heavy weight pressing on his chest, and he couldn't even breath with the thought of it, and with the angry green eyes like his brother's staring at him, but they weren't his brother's because Dean was dead and it was all his fault.

"Dean... sorry... Dean... Dean..."

And he couldn't breathe, and all he could say was his brother's name, over and over, his big brother who'd always protected him and looked after him and whom he'd killed.

"Dean... Dean..."

"Sammy... Sammy!"

And hands were on him again, as they had been, and someone was talking to him, and he could see the spiky fair hair and those eyes which were Dean's, and Dean was speaking, but he knew it wasn't true, because Dean was dead.

"De..."

And that was all he could say because he was so heavy and his chest was so tired and he couldn't breathe.

And the darkness swooped down again and he could hear his own voice screaming his brother's name as Dean disappeared.

* * *

Dean could see his father's face across the bed. He was watching him almost more than he watched Sam, and he could see that his father was worried, more worried than he'd been before. More worried than he been at any stage of Sam's illness up to now. Dean had been concerned all along, certain that Sam was sicker than his father thought. He knew the oldest Winchester hadn't taken this as seriously. It was a relief now not to be carrying the fear alone.

Then he looked at Sam again, and knew that that fear was only greater now that they both bore it. Sam moaned, whimpered in distress, struggled violently with the nightmares which took an ever firmer grip on him. Even Dean was seldom able to calm him, or reach him in the delirious world in which he wandered. Most alarming was his increasing struggle to breathe. In between hoarse gasps he called for his brother, but stared, unrecognising, when Dean answered.

He met his father's gaze briefly, and then looked away. There was nothing to say, and yet the silence was oppressive, broken as it was by the rasp of Sam's tortured breathing. It was a relief when the steps at the door indicated the return of the doctor.

Dr. Webber looked tired. Even worse, he looked worried.

Whatever news he had was not going to be good.

* * *

Please review – it makes my day (and might just reawaken my muse!)


	7. Chapter 7

This chapter is for SunnyZim. I know just how much you've been anticipating it... :-P

**Warning**: Angst ahead. You may even want a tissue.

* * *

It was raining. Heavy drops slid and blurred into a film on the window, obscuring the view. From where he sat Dean could only see an expanse of gray.

For the first time in hours the other chair in the room was empty. His father had told him where he was going, but Dean hadn't really listened. To phone Pastor Jim, maybe, or get some coffee, or get rid of some coffee.

Dean didn't care. Finally, at long last, his father had realised just how sick Sam was. Finally Dean wasn't alone with his fear. He hadn't been alone with his brother, either, since the doctor's pronouncement. His father was a brooding presence in the other chair, watching his younger son with a face carefully wiped clear of emotion. Dean wasn't sure what was going on behind that blank facade, whether his father felt guilt or self-reproach at his hand in this, whether he still blamed Sam to any degree. Sam was the one who talked about his emotions; the older Winchesters kept those things to themselves, and they sat in silence with their feelings, together but very alone.

Sam had talked. Sam had cried out, his words hoarse and broken and incoherent. He'd called for Dean, sobbed his brother's name, occasionally seeming to calm a little when Dean spoke to him, but mostly just begging for forgiveness. Dean had tried to soothe him, tried to get through to him in the nightmares, to break through the delirious terror, but he was seldom successful.

It had not escaped Dean's notice that his brother never called for their father.

Sam was quiet now, the only sound the hitched rasp of his breathing under the mask which had replaced the cannula. Angry colour flared in bright patches on his cheeks. His hand in Dean's was unnaturally hot as the fever burned. It was hours since he'd talked. The day before Dean would have given anything not to have to listen to Sam's distressed cries. But this semi-coma was even worse.

Sam was getting weaker.

The doctor's face flashed through Dean's mind again, along with the doctor's words. Words that looped in his head, words he didn't fully understand in all their technical glory. Sam had Acute Respiratory Distress Syndrome. Sam was teetering on the edge of respiratory failure. His lungs were beginning to shut down. And once that happened, it was only a matter of time before his kidneys followed, and his liver. And then he would be facing multiple organ failure, and Dean didn't need to see the gravity of the doctor's expression to guess what followed that.

He had glanced at his father after Dr. Webber's explanations. Despite his twenty years, despite the responsibility and the maturity that had been thrust on him at an early age, there was still that part of him that instinctively wanted his father's reassurance. He wanted to see his father nod and half-smile. He wanted to hear him say that it would be okay, that Sam would be fine. But all he had seen was a brief flash of something that might have been fear, or guilt, or anger, or any one of a complex array of emotions, and then the mask had come down. Dean knew that his father was worried. He'd lived and worked with the man for twenty years and he knew when he was afraid. But now he just wanted some encouragement. Some comfort.

He'd had to be the adult for Sam since he was barely out of babyhood himself, having to grow up too quickly so that Sam could be a child for longer. Was it too much to ask that he not have to be the father in this situation?

"I have to be strong for you, Sammy... and I just don't think I can. I want Dad to... I wish that Dad..." His whisper sounded unnaturally clear, words that he would never dream of saying aloud were anyone actually listening.

Sam's limp hand stirred in his.

"D-dean..."

"Sammy?" Dean's head jerked up, and he stared at the bed. "Hey bro! How're you feeling?"

It was a superfluous question. Sam looked appalling, and even the sight of the open blue-green eyes was not particularly encouraging. Sam slid a dry tongue over fever-cracked lips.

"I... uh... n-not so... g-good..." The words were hoarse, hitching out between short gasps. Even from where he sat Dean could hear the crackles every time Sam breathed in. The blue tint around his mouth deepened as he tried to speak.

"Don't talk, Sammy... you need to rest, okay?"

Sam's gaze slid dully away, to the foot of the bed and then with an effort to the other side of the room, the empty side, where their father should have been but wasn't. Dean saw the brief flicker of eyelashes.

"Dad went to get coffee." For all he knew, it might be the truth. He just couldn't let his little brother think that their father didn't care.

Sam coughed, wincing feebly, and lay for a long moment staring at the ceiling.

"He'll be back pretty soon, dude." The words fell heavily into the silence between them.

"Dean..."

"Mmm?"

"I... uh... I think... 'm not... gonna m-make it."

Dean's hand tightened involuntarily around his brother's, as his lungs seemed to tighten and squeeze out his breath.

"Sam..." It didn't sound like his voice.

"D-don't feel... g-good at... all..." The glazed eyes were still fixed on the ceiling.

"Sam, no..."

"T-tried... but... so t-tired..."

Dean swallowed thickly. Then the blue-green gaze met his, those familiar eyes even bigger than usual against the hollow-cheeked pallor. They were wet and fearful.

"De... I'm scared..."

It was the voice of a five-year-old Sammy, the soft plea of a little brother craving comfort after a nightmare or safety in a thunderstorm. The tiny quivering voice and big terrified eyes had always reached that part of Dean that nothing else did. Sam had always come to Dean, and Dean had always comforted him. That wasn't going to change, even if Sam was now sixteen and almost as tall as his big brother.

Even if Dean was even more afraid of this enemy than Sam was.

The bed grumbled creakily as it received the weight of another body. Somehow managing to avoid the multiplicity of tubes and lines and leads that were attached to Sam, Dean tugged his brother against him, one arm holding him firmly. Sam sighed, and his head turned naturally into the curve of Dean's neck.

"It's okay, bro... it's okay... don't talk about... about... don't even think about that, you're gonna be fine, Sammy, you hear me? I know you're feeling gross right now, but in a few days you'll be bustin' out of this place..." He could feel the heat of fever where Sam's forehead pressed against his chin.

"We could go to Pastor Jim's... all those books you've been wanting to read... and Pastor Jim's hot chocolate! I don't even like hot chocolate but I'll always drink his..."

"P-pancakes..." Sam's voice was a thin whisper. Dean laughed on one soft breath.

"Every day. Choc chip, with syrup. And roast chicken for dinner, with potatoes, and stuffing... you're gonna be sick of hospital food by then. Oh, and Sam, remember last time he was talking of getting a new dog? Pastor Jim might even let you help train it."

Thick eyelashes tickled his neck.

"And maybe once you're feeling better, we can do some driving. You need some more practice."

"I-i' th' 'mpala...?"

"Hell, yeah. But you better be careful with my baby, Sammy. No riding the clutch or I'll whip your ass."

"J-jerk..." Sam was nestled against him, his eyes shut. The monosyllable drifted faintly.

Dean's free hand cupped his neck, fingers tangling in the damp strands of chestnut hair. His eyes blinked fiercely.

"Bitch."

His arm tightened around the limp figure of his little brother. Sam didn't react, and Dean knew he'd slipped away again, into sleep or unconsciousness.

"Sammy..." It came out choked, half-strangled between clenched teeth.

Pancakes.

Roast chicken.

Books and dogs and the Impala.

"_Sam has Acute Respiratory Distress Syndrome..."_

"_Respiratory failure..._

"_Could develop multiple organ failure."_

The doctor believed Sam was going to die.

Dean knew it, could see it in the gravity of his expression and the way his mouth tightened every time he examined his patient. He could tell from the way Dr. Webber's attitude had softened slightly towards Sam's family.

And Dean had nothing to fight that with.

He'd always had weapons. He'd looked after Sam, protected his baby brother, shot or stabbed or burned whatever was threatening him, even used his fists when there was nothing else. He was the shield that kept Sam safe. He knew what was out there, but somehow there'd been an unconscious and unshakeable determination that nothing would get Sam as long as Dean was around to stop it.

But this... how did he fight this? This was like nothing he'd ever faced before. It was almost ironic. They'd spent their lives battling things most people only met in their worst nightmares, and then Sam fell prey to something so non-supernatural. And there was nothing Dean could do to stop it, no bullets or silver or salt.

He tilted his head and leant his cheek against the softness of dark tangled hair. Sam had always had stubborn hair. It went its own way, defiantly rebelling against discipline. Like Sam himself.

_I can't stop this, Sammy. I can't help you._

He'd known they'd have to go sometime. They danced with danger too much to be naive about that. But he'd always thought it would be later. When they were older, when Sam was grown up. And he'd always known he'd be the one to go first.

He'd known because he knew he couldn't live without Sam.

And now all he could do was hold on to his brother with a desperate grip and feel him slipping away.

His fingers moved idly, palm stroking his little brother's arm.

"I don't know what to do, Sammy..."

He stared blankly at the opposite wall. It shimmered, blurred with the tears that he made no attempt to wipe away.

* * *

It was monotonous, the regular dull tone in his ear. It seemed to mock him. He could imagine the phone ringing in the rectory, calling out with no-one there to respond. There was a brief pause, and the familiar voice came on the line, but it was only the answering machine.

"... please leave a message after the beep."

He heard the beep, and the expectant silence that followed. He listened to the silence, and stood in equal silence, until the answering machine gave up on him and the dial tone hummed.

He should have left a message. But what would he say? "Hey there, just to let you know my boy is very ill and they think he's going to die"?

He pressed the phone against his forehead and leant against the wall for a moment. He'd only left his sons to make the phone call. He should go back. He needed to go back. He'd seen the look in Dean's eyes, the look that his son probably didn't even realise he was wearing. Dean was strong, physically and emotionally. But this was breaking him. He needed his father to be there.

And Sam... John didn't even know if Sam was aware of them anymore. He'd slipped from delirium into semi-coma, and didn't respond to their voices or their hands on his. Dean sat with him and held his hand, and looked at his face with eyes that grew ever more haunted, and John sat and watched them both and felt the emotion build up inside until he thought he'd explode.

That was why he'd left. The phone call was just an excuse. He'd needed a moment to breathe. He'd needed to get away from the physical evidence of his failure.

John knew Dean was angry with him. He'd tried to explain his motives to his older son. Sam needed training. He needed to toughen up, to be more careful. He needed to be prepared for the horrors that were out there.

"_Face it, Dad. This time? It was you he was up against."_

All his carefully stated explanations crumbled in the face of that.

Sam had been injured on that hunt. He'd fallen hard enough to cause internal bleeding. And he'd been so intimidated that he hadn't dared to admit it. His own father had yelled at him, called him careless and irresponsible, when he should have been checking that he was okay. He'd looked Dean over and completely ignored the possibility that Sam might be hurt as well. Instead of the care he'd needed, Sam had received a stinging rebuke. Instead of being praised for his killing of the harpy, he'd been punished.

At what point had John ceased to be a father and become a drill sergeant?

"_You've got his head so messed up that he thinks he deserves to be sick..."_

"Sir?" An orderly paused in his rush from and to who knew where, and eyed him with cautious concern.

John blinked. He gave the man a meaningless smile, mumbled something and walked away, leaving the orderly in the corridor gazing after him.

* * *

The room was quiet when he walked in. He'd expected to hear Dean talking, to hear the deep quiet tones of his older son as he rambled. John had listened to some interesting conversations over the last few days. He might even have been amused at the range of random topics that his son managed to discuss, had it not been for his horrible awareness of how one-sided those conversations were.

As had become his habit, his first glance was at the cardiac monitor. The little squiggles were still there. Too fast, but that was infinitely preferable to a straight line.

His gaze shifted, and he stood still for a moment. Dean was on the bed, next to Sam. Sam's face was turned into Dean's neck, his eyes closed, and the fingers of one hand twisted slackly in the fabric of Dean's sweater. Dean's arm curled firmly around his little brother.

Dean's eyes were shut, and he breathed heavily. He didn't stir as John came to the side of the bed and stood looking down at his sons. Sleep had smoothed out the lines of fear on his face.

It couldn't hide the tear tracks. It couldn't hide the wetly clumped eyelashes that drove a stake of agony through the oldest Winchester.

Sam cried. Sam shed tears when he was upset, when his fights with his father were particularly intense, on occasion when a brutal nightmare caught him off-guard. But Dean didn't. Dean just became stony-faced.

Dean's tears told his father that he'd given up hope.

John reached for the blanket which a nurse had brought in some days ago, unfolded it and spread it carefully over his sons. Then he sat heavily down in the chair beside the bed.

It was a familiar sight. He couldn't remember how many times he'd seen his sons like this, a little chubby Sammy snuggled tightly against his big brother, Dean's arm curved protectively around him. Sam had always had vicious nightmares, and more often than not had ended up in his brother's bed.

Sam still had the nightmares, but the cuddling had dropped off. There wasn't much bed-sharing now, unless the current motel room demanded it.

But the bond was still there. John didn't have much experience with children other than his own, but he knew that his sons were unusually close. They had their arguments, of course. But either one would take a bullet for the other. Dean was still fiercely protective of his brother, and he was still the one to whom Sam went first when things went wrong. The hugging was kept to a minimum now. The love that had produced it was as strong as ever.

All those years ago Sam would have come to his father. He would have cried and complained of being hurt, and feeling sick. And John would have responded, looking after his little son, dealing with his problems. Sam had been easier then, before the teenage angst and hormones. He'd adored his father. He'd sought his approval. He'd come to him for comfort, and he'd received it.

John had lost touch with him since those days. He didn't even know how to communicate with Sam without starting an argument. He loved both his sons, desperately, but he couldn't show it anymore. The father that would have hugged and comforted his little boys had been buried deep under the Marine who disciplined and regimented his teenagers.

Sam had been too intimidated to tell him that he was hurt. Sam had struggled, alone, until he'd collapsed with injuries that should have been noticed by his father.

And now Sam was dying in a hospital bed. It was too late to take it back, too late to change things. Too late to show his son how much he was loved.

He shifted closer to the bed, reached for the hand that wasn't gripping Dean's sweater. Long, limp fingers were motionless, curling slightly in his grasp. His thumb stroked slowly against hot skin which stretched too tightly over fragile bones.

"Sammy..."

There was so much that needed to be said.

_Sorry..._

_I was wrong..._

_You did good..._

_I love you._

There were a million words and none of them could get past the blockage that wasn't just a choking lump of tears that he couldn't shed. He hadn't said these things for years, had somehow imagined that training and discipline would show his boys how he felt without the necessity of speech, and now that there was no time he couldn't break the habit.

* * *

Dr. Webber cupped the back of his neck with a sigh, fingers massaging tired muscles. On the table in front of him printouts reduced his patients to a series of numbers and statistics, figures that he didn't really have the energy to scrutinise.

He'd always been fairly good at distancing himself from the emotional turmoil of his job. He was compassionate, but there were just too many tragic situations for him to allow himself to become attached. He'd learnt ways of breaking bad news, of gently informing family when there was no hope, and then of leaving it behind him when he went home.

He couldn't explain to himself why it was so difficult this time.

Young Sam Winchester was gravely ill. He'd been brought in far later than he should have been, far beyond when his illness might have been easily dealt with. It seemed now that every time his results came back, some new complication had developed.

The Winchesters were an odd family. Aggressive. Secretive. Sam had been adamant, as far as he was able, that he wasn't being abused; Dr. Webber's first interaction with the older Winchesters hadn't done much to convince him of the validity of Sam's assertion. If he had to be honest, he still did not find much to approve of in Sam's father.

But he'd watched the older brother. He'd seen the way he never left the room, the way he sat holding Sam's hand and talking to him even when Sam was obviously unaware of his presence. He could see the increasing anguish as Sam's condition deteriorated. He'd seldom seen such a strongly protective relationship between siblings. Whatever their father's attitude, Dean Winchester would no more abuse his little brother than deliberately injure himself.

Dr. Webber pulled his spectacles from the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, putting off briefly the moment when he'd have to go in there and tell them that Sam was just getting worse.

* * *

Dean's eyes were burned-out sockets.

The young man who shied away from demonstrations of affection, from showing his feelings, had always had expressive eyes. Anger, excitement, amusement... they betrayed him even when his face was impassive.

John had seen it all over the last week. Alarm, bordering on panic, when they first found Sam collapsed in the bathroom. Determination when he insisted they get the youngest Winchester to hospital. Anger, directed at John himself, and frustrated resignation at his father's response to that anger. And love, fierce and tender, when he sat with his little brother, comforting, soothing. Holding on.

Now there was just... nothing. Anger and determination had given way over the days to fear. John had hated that, the weakness that he knew his son didn't want to show. But now fear had faded to blankness.

Dean had given up.

He was beyond devastation, beyond anything more than sitting beside his deathly ill brother and holding his hand.

"Dean..."

Dean blinked slowly, as if surfacing from a deep sleep, and looked at him.

And John didn't know what to say.

He wanted to comfort his son. He wanted to tell him that everything would be alright, that Sam would be fine. That this was all just a nightmare from which they would wake soon. But it wasn't a dream. He was losing his baby, and Dean was losing his little brother, and nothing could be alright after that.

He swallowed and looked away, aware of Dean's gaze but unable to meet it any longer.

He almost didn't notice the movement at first.

Then the hot, limp hand in his stirred slightly, and his head swung round. Sam's eyes were open.

"Sam!"

In his peripheral vision he saw Dean jerk upright.

The unfocused blue-green gaze slid away, shifted to look at the other occupant of the room. John heard Dean's breath catch.

"Sammy –"

Something flickered across Sam's face, an expression John couldn't identify.

"No. Sammy... please..." Dean's voice broke.

Sam's eyes widened a little. His gaze drifted to his father for one brief moment, and John felt something inside him die at the desolation in his son's eyes.

"Sam..." he choked. Tears were beginning to blur his vision.

Sam's mouth moved, but whatever he tried to say was obscured by the oxygen mask, and his eyes slid slowly shut.

His breath faltered.

Then he was still.

* * *

Um... reviews are always greatly appreciated...


	8. Chapter 8

**I honestly meant to get this up days ago, but the last week has been insane... I'm sorry to have kept everyone waiting! Thank you to everyone who reviewed, or favourited or put this on alert. I specially want to thank Yunnaz, hotshow, dcp8, a, Nancy, Becci and charl who reviewed "anonymously"... I couldn't send a review reply, but thanks, guys!**

**If there's anyone who's actually wondering: I'm sad to announce that the show isn't mine... nor its wonderful characters *sigh*...**

**SN SN SN SN SN SN SN SN SN SN SN SN SN**

_**Three Weeks Later**_

The oven door creaked, releasing a wash of succulent odours into the kitchen. Deftly the tall gray-haired man extracted the roasting pan, nodding to himself at the sight of the sizzling juices, and set it on top of the stove.

"Smells good, Jim."

Pastor Jim Murphy acknowledged the compliment with a satisfied smile and lifted the lid of one steaming pot to check on the vegetables. Under cover of slicing a loaf of bread he cast a critical glance at his friend.

Sitting at the kitchen table, staring vaguely into his cooling mug of coffee, John Winchester looked exhausted. Fine lines creased his face, furrowing into the forehead which never appeared without a frown these days. His fingers flexed restlessly around the coffee mug, the only movement about the otherwise motionless figure.

Pastor Jim's mouth tightened, and the knife slid with firmer deliberation through the bread. From this angle he couldn't see John's eyes, but he knew their appearance. He knew he wouldn't soon forget his first glimpse of them when the Winchesters had arrived three days previously. The last time he'd seen that look had been sixteen years ago, and it had taken months – perhaps years – to fade.

John was an intensely private person. He hid his thoughts, his emotions, behind an unbreachable wall. Jim didn't know all of what he was thinking or feeling, and he guessed he never would. But he'd observed enough, in his years of interaction with broken and hurting people, to know now that his friend was in turmoil.

Dean wasn't one to lay out his emotions either, but he was too drained to have his defences up and Pastor Jim had learned a considerable amount from him of what had happened. Dean was still angry with his father, although he had seen enough of the oldest Winchester's anguish for some of that rage to have abated. Jim had felt a measure of the same anger. But he was older than Dean, and wiser. He saw the devastation that John didn't even realise he was showing, and he knew that John was more angry with himself than Dean could ever be.

He put the plate down on the table and looked at his friend.

"John."

Bloodshot green eyes lifted from their perusal of the now-cold coffee. John blinked, breathed heavily, and finally met the pastor's gaze.

"Jim?"

"You need to talk to him." He sighed inwardly as his friend looked away, his mouth tightening. John didn't want to discuss it. For a moment Jim had a decidedly un-pastor-like desire to knock some sense into him.

_You can't avoid it forever, John. This stalemate can't just go on indefinitely._

"John – "

"I'll call Dean for lunch." The finality with which John stood up told Jim the conversation was over. Not that it had ever really started. Jim stood in silence and watched as his friend left the kitchen.

* * *

The shabby leather couch stood angled away from the door, facing the television. Canned laughter erupted as John entered the living room, but the face of his son on the couch didn't change. John paused for a moment, studying him.

Dean looked worn out. Weeks of being indoors, sitting in a hospital room, had leached away his healthy tan and he slouched against the worn leather, staring vaguely at the television without really paying attention to the antics of the on-screen characters. He looked almost asleep.

"Dean? It's time for lunch."

Dean looked up quickly as his father approached. He had obviously not noticed his presence until then.

"Mmm. Okay. I'm coming." He pressed his thumb and forefinger to his temples and then slid his palm down to cover a wide yawn.

"You tired?"

Dean blinked, evidently surprised at the question, but didn't comment. He nodded.

"Yeah. Didn't sleep so well last night. Or the night before, if it comes to that."

"Nightmares?"

Dean's mouth tightened in assent.

"Mmm. Not just mine, though." He glanced down, and John followed his gaze.

The couch was sizeable, but not really designed for stretching out full length. Bare feet pressed against one leather arm and legs curled up towards his chest, Sam had somehow managed to fit himself next to Dean. He was fast asleep, the side of his face mashed against worn denim where his head rested on his brother's leg.

"What's he doing out of bed?" John's voice was quieter.

"He came down about an hour ago. Said he didn't feel like sleeping, but he was out five minutes after he sat down." Dean looked a little self-conscious. "There's... uh... not really that much space on this couch."

John didn't press the issue. But he hadn't missed the flash of emotion in Dean's eyes as he looked at Sam, or the way his hand rested against his brother's chest, as if to reassure himself that Sam's heart was still beating.

John understood, better than Dean could know. He himself was sleeping badly these days, waking in a rush of cold sweat after reliving those moments in the hospital. Time after time he saw the flat finality of the unbroken line on the cardiac monitor. He saw Sam's chest fall, without a subsequent rise. He felt the heat of fever fade from the limp hand in his, to be replaced by the unnatural chill of death.

Sam hadn't died. John hadn't seen that flat line, or the cessation of breathing, because they hadn't been there to see. But still he found himself, again and again, climbing out of bed and slipping into his sons' room, to stand over Sam's bed and listen to the steady cadence of sleep.

He knew the desire to hold his son, just to make absolutely sure that he was really there, really alive and recovering. There was something inside him which irrationally felt that having Sam in his arms would erase the horrible fear that had been his companion for the last weeks, that the physical contact would somehow compensate for his helplessness to prevent Sam's death.

He knew that Dean felt the same. Often, while in the dark room at night, he would hear Dean tossing, muttering in his sleep. From the little he could catch he knew that his older son also dreamt of losing Sam, also replayed the terror of the times when they were sure that he was gone.

But at least when he was awake Dean could console himself in contact with his brother. Even in full health Sam was something of a touchy-feely person; frail and convalescent, he craved his big brother's presence, and Dean was still too shaken to pretend to dislike it.

John didn't have that. It was always to Dean that Sam turned, always his brother's comfort that he wanted and never his father's. John had never been much for hugging and touching, and now he found he didn't know how to do it. He wanted to hold his son, but something held him back. So he hid behind a gruff voice and matter-of fact words, and tried to forget the desolation he'd seen in defenceless blue-green eyes.

* * *

Sam might have been embarrassed if he'd been awake and aware of how he was lying on the couch. But he'd looked so uncomfortable, legs crammed beneath him and head lolling on the worn leather of the chair back, that Dean had shifted him down to lie on the seat. Sam was barely able to stay awake for ten minutes at a time; he could far more comfortably have settled on the other couch in the room, and been able to stretch out full length, but that option had obviously not even occurred to him.

Dean hadn't argued when he'd chosen the smaller, already occupied couch. And when his little brother had slowly sagged against him with deepening breaths, it hadn't occurred to _him_ to move him to the other one.

He wanted Sam close. He wanted to be able to check that he was alright. That he was still breathing without difficulty, that his heart still kept a steady pace. Dean would never admit it to anyone, but he frequently leant across in the night to hold his hand in front of Sam's face and feel the soft puff of breath, or to rest his fingers lightly against his brother's pulse.

Two months ago he would have laughed in disbelief at any suggestion that he could be so obsessive, so hovering. Sam was his little brother, whom he'd practically raised, whom he'd die for, but he wasn't Sam's doting nanny.

That Dean, though, that two-months-ago Dean, hadn't watched his Sammy slipping away from him. He hadn't seen his little brother in respiratory failure, on a ventilator. That Dean hadn't fought against strangling sobs as he clutched his brother's limp hand and begged him to fight.

They'd thought they'd lost him. When Sam had closed his eyes after trying to speak to them both, they'd thought it was goodbye. The doctor had stood beside the bed for a long time, and his face had told them, even before his compassionate words, that he held out no hope.

But Sam hadn't died. Not then. Not in the next days, even while it seemed he could go at any time. Somehow breath had succeeded shallow breath, and the little green squiggles had continued to chase each other across the screen of the cardiac monitor without flattening into a straight line. Dean woke gasping, several times a night, from nightmares in which a continuous shrill tone formed the background to the doctor's "I'm sorry...", but it hadn't happened. Somehow, Sam _had_ fought.

Five days after his eyes had closed with such apparent finality, Sam woke.

After the nightmares, after Dean leant across just to make sure that Sam was fine, he would lie back and remember the first sight of those drowsy blue-green eyes. Drugged and unfocused and the most beautiful thing in the world. They'd gazed vaguely at the ceiling, shifted sluggishly until Sam found the face he was searching for. Nurses had bustled, Dr. Webber and colleagues whose names Dean never caught had checked and examined and talked quietly in undeniable surprise, and Sam had just looked at his big brother before drifting into sleep with a feeble hint of a smile curling his mouth under the oxygen mask.

Dr. Webber had been cautious then, obviously not wanting to give false hope. But Dean could see the sudden optimism that replaced the gravity in his eyes. He saw the way the man walked just a little straighter, as if some invisible weight had slipped from his shoulders. The day that the doctor turned from examining Sam with a smile on his face, Dean knew his little brother would recover.

Dean looked down at the dark head leaning against him. Sam hadn't really been ready to leave the hospital. He'd been out of Intensive Care for less than a week when the administration came asking questions about John's insurance, though. Dean knew they'd had little choice, but the anger which had been buried beneath the weight of fear now surfaced again at the memory of the ease with which his father had removed his younger son from medical care. Sam was still half-sick, pale and lethargic, but Dean had seen no hesitation in the way their father bundled him out of the hospital. He'd slept on the backseat of the Impala for the entire journey to Pastor Jim's.

Dean knew he couldn't expect his brother to be vibrant with good health three days after leaving hospital. Sam spent most of his time sleeping and had no appetite, but that was par for the course after such a serious illness.

What concerned Dean was the emotional tension that kept his brother as taut as a violin string. He'd hoped that the nightmares were a by-product of the fever. He'd hoped Sam's muddled distress over his father, his flawed perspective of what his father wanted of him, would clear as the illness loosened its grip. But several times a night he was woken by Sam's soft whimpers as the nightmares tormented him. Sam didn't tell him what he saw in those dreams. "No, please, Dad" and "I'm sorry... I'm sorry..." stuttered out between broken sobs gave him a fairly good idea.

Dean had seen the desperation in his father's eyes, the wetness of fear as he watched his younger son dying. He knew that losing Sam would have crushed his father. But since Sam's unexpected recovery the oldest Winchester had repressed those emotions again. John was gruff and morose, even more than usual, and Dean could see the effect it was having on Sam.

He looked up at his father now, anger smouldering in his eyes, but his voice was polite.

"I'm not that hungry right now, Dad. I think I'll just stay here."

John didn't miss the anger. He didn't miss the way Dean's arm tightened around his sleeping brother.

"Sam'll be more comfortable in bed, Dean."

Dean couldn't argue with that, although his father saw the struggle in his eyes.

"Okay," he said grudgingly. "But I'll –"

"No, I'll take him to his room. You need to eat."

"Dad –"

"Dean."

The habits of years were hard to break. That tone had always garnered unquestioning obedience before, and Dean backed down now, although his mouth was set in a tight resentful line.

* * *

It was a good couple of years since John had carried Sam like this, cradled against his chest. His younger son's head was tucked against his shoulder, and soft, regular breaths were warm on his neck. Sam was alarmingly light, fragile almost, a frightening reminder of how close they'd come to losing him. John's arms tightened a little as he turned sideways through the bedroom door, and for a moment he was carrying a tiny Sammy again, warm and soft and baby-fragrant.

Sam muttered something as John deposited him carefully on the bed, and his face turned into the pillow, legs pulling up a little under the blankets. His father tucked the bedclothes more securely around him.

Sam looked so small. His white face was all planes and angles, dark hair drooping untidily over his forehead and emphasising the shadows that bruised the soft skin under his eyes. John stood over him for a moment, just looking down at him, and then he sat heavily on Dean's bed and ground the heels of his hands into tightly shut eyes.

He was expected in the kitchen. The roast chicken would be cooling and the gravy congealing, but right now the last thing he could face was dinner, with Dean brooding across the table and the concern of Jim Murphy that blurred into disapproval. He was where he needed to be, with Sam, even if it felt like the coward's option that the only time he sat with his youngest was when he was asleep.

* * *

The light was deceptive. It flickered between shifting leaves, dappled on the damp unhealthy ground. It was confusing, constantly startling him into imagining their prey was upon them. He peered through the dimness, turning his head this way and that, not wanting to miss her.

"Sam!"

That was... Dad wasn't supposed to be here.

"Sam!"

"Dad –"

"What the hell have you been doing? _Where were you?_"

"What's wrong... Dad, what is it?"

Then Dean was there, sprawled on his back, eyes staring emptily upwards. And there was blood, everywhere there was blood, spilling and streaming and pooling around limply outflung arms and legs. So much blood...

"NO! No... Dean!" He was sobbing, and scrambling, and hurling himself towards his brother, because Dean couldn't be dead, Sam had been watching for the harpy and there was no way she could have got to him, but when he tried to reach for Dean, solid legs were in the way and no matter how much he fought he couldn't get past.

"You let him die, Sam. Your own brother. You killed him with your carelessness."

"No... no, Dad... Dean..."

"Dean is dead because of you."

"Dad, no... I was watching... I tried..."

"You try, but it's never enough. You could never match up to Dean."

"No... please..."

"You're useless, Sam... you've always been a liability, and now my son is dead because of you."

"I'm sorry, Dad... I'm sorry..."

"Just get out of my sight... go, Sam. I don't want you."

"No! Dad, no......"

"I don't love you and I don't want you. You should have died, not Dean." The green eyes were granite-hard.

"Dad, no... please... I'm sorry..."

"Sam."

"No... no... I'm sorry, Dad..."

"Sam!"

* * *

He didn't notice it at first.

His shoulders were hunched, forehead resting heavily on fisted hands, eyes staring blankly at the ground. He was tired. He was so tired. The nightmares which made a mockery of his sleep, the endless replaying of the death of his son, enervated him until it was suddenly too much effort even to hold up his head.

Bedsprings creaked dully as his sleeping son shifted. Sam's soft whimper was almost inaudible, and his father didn't hear it.

_I don't know what to do, Sammy. I've screwed up big time but I don't know how to change things. I don't know how to help you. _

_You didn't die but I feel as if I'm losing you anyway._

"No... Dad..."

"Sam?" He lifted his head. "Sam!"

Sam was squirming restlessly under the bedclothes. His eyes were shut, but a faint sheen of sweat lined his face.

"Dad... Dad..."

"It's okay, Sam, I'm here." John leant forward, one hand reaching tentatively for his son.

"No... Dad... _please_..."

"Sam –"

"No... _no_.... Dean!" Sam's breath hitched in a sob. "_Dean!_"

John froze, shaken by the fear in his son's voice. For a moment he thought that Sam was scared of him, that he was calling for his brother for protection, and the hurt was almost as great as the shock.

But Sam's eyes were still shut, and much of what he said was an incoherent mumble.

"Sam. Sam, wake up. It's just a dream. Just a nightmare." His hand hovered, uncertain, and then came down lightly on his son's head. "Wake up, Sam!"

Sam's breath quivered.

"D-Dean..."

"No. No, it's me, Sam. It's Dad."

The uneasy writhing stilled. Thick dark eyelashes fluttered, and lifted, revealing damp blue-green eyes. Sam blinked at him, confusion and distress evident on his face.

"'m sorry... 'm sorry, Dad..."

"What?" John recoiled, completely taken aback, and saw too late that Sam had misinterpreted his withdrawal. Sam's lower lip trembled.

"I didn't mean to, Dad... I'll try harder... I'm _sorry_..."

"Sam –"

Sam seemed to shrink from him, turning his head away, and John stared helplessly.

"I know I'm useless... l-liability... d-don' wanna be a b-burden..."

"No, Sam –"

Then he heard the words which disintegrated into shaking sobs.

"P-please Dad...don' h-hate me...."

"Sammy!" The name seemed to stick in John's throat as he gaped at his son.

_Is that what Sam thinks... that I hate him?_

He wasn't conscious of moving, but somehow he was sitting on the bed beside his son. His arms went round him, and he held Sam in a grip that was tight with emotions he couldn't begin to define.

_He almost died. I almost lost one of the two most precious things in the world to me, and he thinks I don't love him._

"Dad..." Sam was tense, trying to pull away. "Dad, I d-don't –"

"How could you think that, Sammy? How could I possibly hate you?"

Sam stared at his father in wretched bewilderment. Tears tracked unheeded down his face.

"You said I was a b-burden... you said I was useless and... and c-careless... a-and you're r-right, because Dean almost d-died, and it's all my f-fault, I _know_... b-but I didn't mean to, Dad – I _really_ didn't mean to... a-and I know I'm not like D-Dean... a-and I don't b-blame you, Dad, but I know you l-love him m-more – "

"The hell I do! Sam –"

"You were scared w-when he was hurt... y-you were worried... b-but you were j-just angry with me... even when I w-was sick." As if the words had drained his resistance, the tension abruptly left him and he sagged against his father, sobbing brokenly.

* * *

A little piece of crust had fallen from its slice. Dean glanced at Pastor Jim, and sneaked the bread into his mouth.

"We haven't said grace." Pastor Jim's voice was grave, but his lips twitched. Dean swallowed the morsel.

"I know, but..." He looked at his watch. "Where the he... uh... on earth is Dad?"

"He took Sam back to bed, didn't he?"

"Yeah, but that shouldn't take him over ten minutes." He pushed his chair back and got up. "I'll just go and see where he is." His voice was casual, but Pastor Jim's steady look told him the older man wasn't fooled.

Dean knew it was ridiculous to be concerned. It was his father – Sam's father. Not some monster, or ghost. To feel the need to protect his brother right now was beyond crazy.

"_You said I mustn't complain... mustn't whine if I got hurt..."_

_Huge wet blue-green eyes and a shaking hand that gripped his jacket..._

"_My f-fault... deserve this..."_

Dean turned abruptly and headed out of the kitchen.

The bedroom door was open, pushed back as John must have left it when he carried Sam through. Dean could see the heavy old wardrobe as he approached along the passage, and the edge of the scarred desk, and the faded stain on the carpet where Sam had dropped the mercurochrome when he was eleven –

Sam was crying.

It wasn't the normal post-nightmare tears, soft and sniffly and half-asleep.

These were wrenching, strangling sobs. These were cries as he hadn't heard from his brother in years, sounds that froze him for a second and then sent him running the last few feet to the open door. He could hear the sounds of someone talking. _His father. _

_If Dad's made Sam cry, so help me, I'll – _

His hand groped for the doorframe, white-knuckle tight, and one breath jerked in quick and hard. Neither of the two in the room noticed him where he stood on the threshold, completely taken aback.

Dean would never forget the incident with the shtriga. The events, the details of that night were indelibly tattooed on his brain. Now, for an instant, it was as if he was back in that room, after the thing had burst through the window and made its escape. That night was the last time he could remember seeing his father like this, seated on the edge of the bed, arms wrapped around his younger son. One hand cupped the back of Sam's head, holding it against his chest.

"Shhh...shhh, Sammy... it's okay. It's okay." John's voice was gravelly, and his jaw worked as if he was swallowing. "I'm sorry, son... I'm so sorry..."

_Dad is apologising?_

"I should have checked, Sammy. I should have made sure you were okay."

Sam choked out something that Dean didn't catch.

"Yeah. You should have been paying attention... but I should have noticed that you were hurt. I was just too busy being angry and worried about Dean. I'm sorry, Sammy... I was... I was wrong."

Sam was still shaking, but the sobs were quieter. One hand came up to rest on his father's arm.

"You did good, killing that harpy by yourself, and then looking after Dean. I know I don't say it much, but you're a good hunter, son, and you work hard, with the research especially. There're many times when the information you've found us has saved our asses on a hunt."

John was silent for a moment. His hand moved idly on Sam's back.

"It seems like all we do nowadays is argue, and fight... I'm not very good at this, Sam. There's so many things I wish... were different... I wish I could be a better father... but.. but there in the hospital... I almost lost you, Sammy. I don't know... I don't know what I would have done if... if you... You and Dean... you're all I have. I get sc... I worry that something will happen to one of you, that one day you won't be ready... and it makes me angry... but Sam, don't think that... that I don't love you. Don't _ever_ think that."

His arms tightened, and this time Sam went willingly, relaxing in his grip as he buried his face in his father's shirt. John turned his head, his chin lowering to rest on the dark hair.

"I love you, Sammy... I love you so much..." The words were choked. His eyes met Dean's across the room and there was no surprise in them, only emotion that might have been fatigue or relief or something else that John Winchester very seldom displayed so openly. They looked at each other for a moment. Then Dean crossed to the bed and sat down beside his father, listening to the soft shudder of Sam's breath as he lay half-asleep in his father's arms, and saying nothing, because right then nothing needed to be said.

* * *

"I wish we could have stayed longer." Sam turned reluctantly from the window where he was trying to catch the last glimpse of Pastor Jim's house.

"You just wanted more time with that puppy of his."

"Yeah, so?"

"_So_, I'm glad I'm not gonna be sharing a room anymore with someone who smells like dog breath. And wet dog hair. I swear, Sam, you were beginning to turn into a dog yourself... not that you don't already look a bit like one, with that hair –" Dean sniggered as Sam swatted the back of his head.

"Seriously, though, couldn't we have... I mean, just a few more days..."

"We need to get on with this hunt, Sam." John's voice was mild. Sam's gaze turned to his father.

"I know, Dad, but..."

John coughed.

"The thing is, I wanted to get there by Sunday. School term starts Monday and I figured you'd rather be there for the beginning than arrive after everyone else." John's gaze was focused on the road, but he didn't miss the quick glance from Dean beside him.

There was dead silence in the back seat. When at last he looked in the rear view mirror, Sam's eyes were wide.

"B-but... I thought –"

"Yeah. I... uh.... I changed my mind." His voice was gruff. He frowned through the windshield, and then flicked a glance in the mirror again.

Sam's eyes were still enormous, but a slow grin was spreading over his face. Dimples that hadn't made an appearance in weeks now grooved deeply in too-thin cheeks.

"Dad, I... uh... thanks."

A brief nod was the only answer, but John's mouth twitched as he turned his attention back to the road, and the Impala leapt forward with an accelerated burst of enthusiasm.

_**Finis**_

**So, there you go... let me know what you think... **


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